


The Secret Keeper

by Squaresville



Category: Arthur (Cartoon)
Genre: Anger, Anxiety, Childhood Trauma, Complicated Relationships, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Family Drama, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other, References to Depression, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squaresville/pseuds/Squaresville
Summary: Buster has a brilliant plan to get back in Fern’s good graces, but will Fern see things his way? Having lost her privileges, Muffy tries to cope amid mounting family tension. Can she get her life back and manage to hold onto her sanity? Can her new tutor hold onto his? And what exactly is Catherine Frensky hiding? Sequel to "Lies and the Lying Parents Who Tell Them".





	1. Oh No He Didn't

 

 

Disclaimer: I own nothin’.

 

_I don’t know what’s going on_

_Something surely must be wrong_

_You’re living secret lives._

                                     —Electric Light Orchestra

 

_2004_

It was Wednesday afternoon, and Catherine Frensky sat doing her bio homework at the kitchen pass thru. Ever the queen of teenage multitasking, she was also eating a snack of carrots and hummus she had made for herself as well as talking on the phone with her friend Tami. Had anyone else been in the apartment at the time, they might have caught her end of the conversation, but it was all harmless high school business.

“Why don’t you go out with him if you like him so much?… _Me?_...Jason and I are _friends_ , and it’s going to stay that way…I _do_ like him, that’s why I want him to stick around. The ‘we’ll still be friends’ thing never really works out. The good guys just sort of fade into obscurity. Sean’s a prime example. He was cool, and now he barely talks to me. That’s _not_ happening with Jason…I do _not_ have a stick up my—just do yourself a favor and call him up. He won’t say no…All right…See ya tomorrow.”

The kitchen became silent save for the occasional crunching of a carrot and the soft scratching of Catherine’s pen as she moved on to rewriting her notes.

**_AROOO-GA! AROOO-GA!_ **

She jumped in her seat. The submarine klaxon had come from her phone. There went her concentration.

“Frankie,” she hissed, still clutching her chest.

Her nine-year-old sister’s latest hobby, as part of fulfilling her annoying sibling quota, had been changing the sound for text alerts whenever Catherine left her phone unguarded, always to some kind of rude or obnoxious noise. The lock screen was a pain to deal with, but she would have left it engaged a while longer if she had not believed Francine had given up on it by now. Lesson learned.

When she would remember to change it back to her original setting later, Catherine would reflect on how eerily appropriate the sound effect had been. It had heralded a message that would bring on a craze of panic and concern, changing the course of a friendship and altering a family dynamic for years to come.

She picked up the device, sure that Tami was hitting her back with an excited message after hanging up with Jason. The text was short and simple, but it was not from Tami. It was from Chip.

**I did it**

 

Did it? Did what?

“Oh,” she uttered now that she remembered their last conversation.

_No_ , she thought. _He didn’t_!

She would admit that she had Chip pegged wrong in a few areas. She had learned some things about him over the course of their short friendship that surprised her. But he was still pampered. He was a bit soft for the sort of lifestyle that required the skin of one’s teeth and the seat of one’s pants. There was no way he could have gone through with it.

Right?

 

* * *

 

A few weeks back, she had gotten a call from Chip well after midnight. Chip knew never to call this late on a weeknight, so she had figured it was a drunk dial. She quickly removed the vibrating phone from the nightstand and yanked her comforter over her head, hoping to shield her sleeping sister from the bright screen.

She was still groggy and her voice was barely above a whisper as she answered, “Some of us are expected at school at eight-fifteen in the morning.”

She expected a slurred “my bad!” from Chip, accompanied with the with the ambient background noises of his frat house, blaring music with an errant _Whoo!_ filtering here and there through the cacophony. What she got on the other end was quiet. She thought she could pick out crickets chirping, suggesting that Chip was at least outside and likely away from Fraternity Row.

“I’m sorry,” he said after what seemed like an eternity. “I wanted to catch you earlier, but…”

His voice was shaky. He was not crying, but he sounded as if he could begin at any moment. This side of him was unfamiliar and alarming. Had something bad happened?

“What is it?” she said hastily, a bit louder than intended.

“I’m freaking out.”

“Um, hold, please.”

Catherine peered from underneath her comforter to make sure that Francine was still asleep. Her sister lay like a rock in the exact same position she had been with Nemo cuddled up next to her.

When Catherine had made it to the landing between floors, after sneaking out of her room, down the small hall and out of the apartment, she got back on the line.

“Okay,” she continued quietly. “It’s going to be okay. Just tell me what you took.”

“What? I didn’t _take_ anything. I just really need to talk to someone.”

A feeling of relief had quickly been followed with one of annoyance.

“And all the bros are tucked in for the night?”

“Screw them. I need someone smart.”

It was drafty in the stairwell, and Catherine gathered her nightgown tightly around her legs as she settled down on one of the steps, hugging her knees to her chest.

“If this is about Lexie…” she began, referring to Chip’s on-and-off between other girlfriends, the blonde from Theta Alpha. Chip always needed to know how he could get her to take him back, or how he could tell her he was sorry, yada yada. Catherine was not in the mood at such a late hour.

“I haven’t talked to Lexie in, like, two months.”

He sounded like he did not care about his status with her either. He sniffled. The South had never been kind to Chip’s allergies, but Catherine had a feeling something else was to blame.

“Catherine, I—I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

“Maybe tell me what’s going on by using language that isn’t cryptic and terrifying,” she said.

“I don’t want this life. Taltech, Omega Psi Phi…I hate it.”

“Okay, so just talk to an advisor. Maybe you could transfer—”

“It’s not just school. It’s everything. I haven’t wanted this for a long time. I thought I could warm up to it, you know, that things would eventually get better or I would accept it. But the more I think about it—where my life’s heading, where I’ll end up—I feel like I’m going to puke. It occurred to me that I’ve spent my whole life under Dad’s thumb. What are those puppets controlled by strings?”

“Marionettes?”

“Yeah. That’s what it feels like. I’m being pulled around and maneuvered into a position I never asked to be in. But I only realized it when it was too late.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Chip gave a mirthless chuckle. His breath hitched, and she thought he might actually be crying now.

“Chip, listen to me. If this upsets you, you need to talk to your father.”

“You think I haven’t thought of that? What would happen if I did? I’m the first-born male. It falls on me to continue my family’s legacy. That’s how it’s been for generations. If I just told him one day that I won’t be doing that ‘kay thanks bye, I think he’d go ballistic.”

“ _I_ think you might be overreacting.”

“You don’t know my father. He’ll get what he wants. Do you think he got successful _without_ bending people to his will?” There was more sniffling. “I’m not sure how much more I can bend before I break, Catherine.”

Catherine faltered on her words. He had slipped into a tone that made her uneasy. He sounded desperate. It was the middle of the night. He had not called her for advice; he was going to do something rash.

“What are you thinking about doing?”

Chip said nothing.

“What is it, Chip?”

“I’ve been squirreling money away. It started out as a just-in-case thing, but now it’s like a real emergency fund.  It won’t take long, and I doubt Dad will miss it. Maybe someday soon I can get out of here and say to hell with all of it.”

She could not help but chortle a bit as she said, “W-what?”

“You think I wouldn’t do it?”

To be honest, she did think that, but she was not going to agitate him further when he was already feeling tender.

“I just…I’m not sure what I was expecting you to say, but it wasn’t that. That’s a big decision. A big change.”

“Yeah, that’s what I like about the idea.”

“And that’s why I hope you’ll think about this carefully. Please. Don’t rush to do this.”

“Maybe I _should’ve_ talked to one of the brothers,” said Chip. “You’re just trying to talk me out of it. I thought you, of all people, would understand that I need to live my own life.”

“I do. I totally get that. But before you run off, will you at least promise that you’ll try to make your father understand how much this is upsetting you?”

Silence.

“Chip? Did I lose you?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah. Before push comes to shove I promise that, without a doubt, Dad will know exactly where I stand.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. And I think you’ll find that you’ll feel a lot better if you can just be honest, like a weight has been lifted off your chest.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Thanks for the chat.”

They said their goodbyes and Catherine made her way back to bed as quietly as she could.

She was not sure Chip was right when he said Mr. Crosswire could not be reasoned with, but she was relieved that Chip had agreed to talk to him. That was because she could not imagine not feeling free to communicate with her parents. It certainly was not because she thought he would execute his half-baked plan. Chip was a silver spoon kid through and through. He had been waited on hand and foot, spoiled and placated since the day he was born. And now he had a free ride to college and a beautiful Porsche he could park in front of Omega Psi Phi when he was not cruising around with one in a seemingly endless string of girlfriends. And it was all his by birthright.

What did he know about making it on his own? Not a thing. That was why the next time she got a call from him he would be back to whining about Lexie.

* * *

 

Catherine stared at her phone, racking her brain for anything else “I did it” could mean, wondering if it was time to panic. She dialed him with fumbling fingers.

“Hello.” His voice sounded hollow.

“Where are you?” she blurted, breathing heavily.

“Outside O. P. P.,” he said using the nickname the brothers had employed since the Naughty by Nature song had charted, though he said it without a trace humor. He continued before Catherine had a chance to feel relieved. “I’m waiting on a taxi to take me to the bus station.”

“Where?” She could not get the rest of her sentence out.

“Jacksonville. Then to Savannah. There are people there. That karaoke place I told you about? Friends of the owner.”

“Why, Chip?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do.”

“He _came down_ here. You should’ve seen him, heard the things he said… But I stood my ground, and guess what? He cut me off. Do you still think I was overreacting?”

“I’m—I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”

“I dunno, figure out how to survive. I’m scared, Catherine. But I’d rather be, you know? It’s better than being his Mini-Me.”

“What about your mother? What about Muffy?”

“What _about_ them?”

“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t.”

He exhaled. It spoke volumes about the burden he must be feeling.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time left,” he said. “Once the taxi’s here I’ll leave my phone behind inside the Porsche. I’m surprised Da— _he_ hasn’t had it disconnected yet. It might be a while before I can get in touch with you again.”

“But you will, right? You’ll be in touch?”

“On one condition: You don’t tell a soul where I am. No one. He’s done with me anyway. But if he ever decides to ask around, you never spoke to me, got it?”

“Figure out how to survive” was a vague plan, and Chip had a severe lack of skills. What if he ended up in dire need of help?

“Swear to me, Catherine, or I swear to god this conversation is the last we’ll ever have.”

What could she do? If something went awry, she would be his only connection to those who could assist him. And they were friends. He could not leave her wondering, too. There was no way she could afford to sever their ties, tenuous as they were.

“Okay, Chip,” she said, trying to hold back tears. “I swear.”

_To be continued…_


	2. Blunder, She Wrote

 

“I think I’ve found it,” Buster said as he removed Rush’s _Moving Pictures_ from a box labeled “LP: Q-T” and handed it to his father. It was late Saturday morning, and Buster was helping his father move into his newly-leased townhome. A small fort made of moving boxes surrounded them in the living area as they diligently worked. His father had deemed the albums the primo task of the day.

“If we work at this all day we’ll need tunes,” his father had said upon Buster’s arrival.

So while Buster had been searching for the album, his father had finished setting up the Thorens turntable atop a wooden stand that doubled as a filing system for his prized collection.

“That’s the one, kiddo. Thanks.” His father handled the album as if it were made of nitroglycerin, removing it from the jacket and placing it on the player.

“Now,” he said, “Let’s get moving.”

He pressed the button to start the turntable. Nothing happened.

“Huh?” his father said, pressing the button again a bit more firmly. Still, it did not turn.

“I don’t understand,” he said, a bit anxious now. “It was working fine before I packed it up.”

He tried one more time for good measure but got no result.

“Must’ve happened during the move. I guess I’ll just have to find a repair service around here.”

“I bet my friend Alan could fix it for you,” Buster said. “He knows a thing or two about electronics, even incredibly old, out-of-date ones.”

His father gave him a side eye at the remark.

“I don’t know, Buster…” he began skeptically.

“No, _really_. He’s the genius, remember? He’s, like, the king of broken stuff. And you should see all the crazy gadgets he’s built over the years. He could fix this in his sleep. He probably _has_ fixed things in his sleep.”

His father thought it over, then said, “Give me his number before you leave.”

“Sure thing,” Buster said. “Meanwhile, have you heard of these amazing devices called iPods? I…pods,” he repeated slowly as if he were explaining it to someone with a weak grasp of the English language. “They’re what modern folk use to play music.”

“I know what an iPod is, smartenheimer,” his father said good-naturedly. “I’m not a technophobe, you know; I just know quality sound when I hear it. One day, you’ll know it, too.”

“And I’ll still be too lazy to set up a turntable.”

His father laughed. “We’ll see. I think I’ve got an iPod around here somewhere. A speaker dock, too. Check one of the boxes in the bedroom, will you?”

 

Minutes later, “Tom Sawyer” played from a tiny iPod dock as Buster and his father sat in front of the stand, carefully putting away the record collection, one album at a time.

“So how’s life been treating ya?” His father said after a while. “Everything okay?”

“It’s good,” Buster said. “Well, except for one thing…”

“Your mom?”

“Oh, no. No. She’s been all right. It’s—there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you…”

“Go on.” His father paused with a copy of _The Wall_ in his hands, looking curious.

Buster took a deep, exaggerated breath and said, “What does it mean when a girl is mad at you but she won’t tell you why, but she acts like you _should_ know why, but you have no idea, but then telling her that makes her even madder, and now she won’t even talk to you?”

His father blinked, taking in everything Buster had just said. “Oh, boy…” he said. “I was wondering when we’d get around to having this kind of conversation. Who’s the girl?”

“Fern, my friend from school. She’s…different. She’s into writing and poetry, and she knows a lot of weird and interesting stuff. But she’s kind of moody.”

He explained how Fern bolted up from their table at the Sugar Bowl and walked out on him and their friends in a huff.

“And the other day was the weirdest.  We were on our way to the Sugar Bowl, and I was telling her about how you were going to move back here and everything. Next thing I knew, she was heading down the hall away from me, and she was angry—at me, at something else…I don’t know what! When I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me. Now she won’t speak to me. I haven’t even seen her since that day.”

That was not exactly true. Since the day she had gotten so angry, Fern had managed to stay illusive, completely intentional on her part, Buster was sure. However, he had managed to catch the occasional glimpse of her in the halls, but always as she rounded a corner or disappeared into a classroom. He had finally crossed paths with her Wednesday morning of this week, just as she was exiting her homeroom. The hall had been crowded with bustling students, so there had not been a lot of room or opportunity for her to evade or avoid Buster.

“Um, hi, Fern,” he had said as they approached one another. “What’s up?”

Fern had not looked at him.

“The sky,” had been her cold response as she passed.

“I don’t get it, Dad. Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, son, an attitude like that can be due to any number of things. But if you genuinely have no clue and she refuses to tell you, then it’s likely because she’s frustrated. Whatever is bothering her is so blatantly obvious, at least to her, that she can’t believe you don’t see it, too. You see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Buster mumbled. “I was hoping maybe you could be a little more specific, though.”

“Sorry, pal. I’m not a mind reader, and neither are you. Keep reaching out to your friend. If she sees that you’re sincere, she may come around eventually.”

Buster felt less than encouraged by this. However, his father had more experience in this area. Maybe he was right and Fern would eventually come around. After all, she could not possibly stay angry forever.

* * *

 

“I can’t believe him!”

A fresh wave of anger swelled inside Fern as she marched along the sidewalk, her gray shoulder bag banging in time against her hip. She spotted a pebble lying on the sidewalk and gave it a kick. Lucky for her there were no cars traveling past at this moment, for the pebble sailed diagonally across the street and bounced off the pavement a couple of times before skittering into a storm drain. She had just left her writers’ group meeting, the third one in a row.

After getting into trouble at the Baxter cottage, she was surprised her mother had actually allowed her to join, but perhaps she should not have been. It was social interaction, after all. She was even allowed to attend Muffy’s girls-only tea party tomorrow afternoon. So far her punishment seemed to extend to her reverse room curfew; still no word on what her real punishment would entail. She was not stupid enough to think that her mother had forgotten about it, however. The punishment would happen eventually, probably when she was lest expecting it.

Impending doom was the least of her problems. She could not even be preoccupied by her annoyance with Buster Baxter for failing to see what was right in front of him. Well, not today, at least. The latest meeting of her writers’ group was what really had her blood boiling.

* * *

 

Fern was the seventh member of the Elwood City Wordsmiths, an eclectic group or writers as far as age and background went.

The oldest member was a rabbit man named Geoff Smith, who went by “Smitty,” his lifelong nickname. Smitty was sixty-six and recently retired from a long career in sales for Bartleby Chemical and had mainly joined the group to feed his favorite hobby. He had a kind and grandfatherly aura, and most of the other members seemed to love and respect him.

Before Fern came along, the youngest members had been Omar and Allison, who were both college sophomores. Omar, a bear who seemed to don his smoky-gray beanie regardless of the weather, was a true crime buff and penned thrillers as his main focus. An aardvark with wavy strawberry-blonde hair, Allison was fond of YA contemporary stories. Fern suspected the two were dating when they had approached her as a single unit after her first meeting, though she had no solid proof of such a relationship.

There was Corrine, a wispy moose woman and mother of five-year-old twin girls, and Tamara, a cat in her mid twenties with impressive black curls that even rivaled Sue Ellen’s.

That left Lucas. Lucas was the founder of the Wordsmiths. He was a pale monkey in his thirties, with unruly hair the color of chocolate and sideburns that aspired to be mutton chops. His day job was in IT, but he liked to point out that he had participated in “many a writing workshop” over the years.

That was the odd thing about him: his manner of speaking. He was as American as a tater tot, but if an alternative pronunciation for a word existed, Lucas typically employed it. “Shed-jool” in place of “schedule” was used most. He peppered his sentences with words like “oft” and “methinks” perhaps more frequently than one should. Fern had heard of purple prose before, but she did not think purple language existed. Until she met Lucas, that is.

Lucas always held the Wordsmith meetings at his house, and he seemed to fancy himself captain of a tightly-run ship. The meetings were only about an hour long, and he liked to keep everyone on schedule.

“Next on the shedjool,” Lucas had said during the latter half of the meeting that morning, “is peer critiques. This week’s selection comes from young Fern, our newest and _littlest_ writrix.”

A soft, polite round of applause emanated from the group. A quick shiver went up Fern’s spine. One Wordsmith was up for critique each week. She had submitted the first three chapters of her completed novel via email after last week’s meeting, and now it was her turn. She clasped her clammy fingers around her now tepid can of soda, anxiously waiting to hear what the Wordsmiths had to say.

“I’ll start,” Lucas said.

What? That’s not how it usually went. After Lucas announced peer critiques, he gave the floor to the person on his left. When the person on the left finished, the next person went and so on, continuing in a clockwise fashion until everyone had spoken. Lucas was always last to go.

He breathed heavily through his nose as he eyed his printed pages of Fern’s manuscript. He had the look of a man who had just had a forty-ounce steak placed in front of him, and he was daunted by the prospect of trying to finish it but delighted to eat it all the same.

“Where to begin? Honestly, I don’t know what’s a bigger travesty, failing to give your protagonist a clear allegiance or that the secret she’s keeping isn’t even allegorical…”

Lucas went on for minutes, naming prime examples of this technique, citing famous works as well as some of his own. Instead of hearing what he had to say on the subject, Fern was still stuck on his opening words, “travesty” having stung deeply. True, Veronica, her story’s protagonist, had not picked a clear side. But it had only been three chapters—she was going to, eventually. Her allegiance was a huge part of the story. So that bit of criticism was unfair. The second bit was plain baffling.

“In my defense,” she said as soon as Lucas broke for air, “my intended focus of the story is the _toll_ the secret takes on Veronica and her journey into degradation rather than the secret itself. A secret’s just a secret until it becomes a burden.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Lucas said. “However, your interjection reminded me of another point I wanted to make. Weasel words. Your prose is absolutely _riddled_ with them. The entire time I was plodding through your submission I kept thinking, dear god, I’m going to hurl something at the wall if this girl uses the word ‘just’ one more bloody time. Moving on, your dialogue is all over the place. Is it flowery, or is it hard-boiled? Pick one.”

“Well, individuals tend to speak in various ways,” Fern said, trying to tamp down her irritation.

Lucas ought to know that better than anyone. He was allegedly from Idaho, but the way he spoke was nothing if not handcrafted. It was like building a plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet, where the average Joe could have meatloaf, teriyaki chicken, and tacos all at the same time. How about some archaic phrasing for a main course with some British speak on the side?

“I wasn’t finished. And don’t get me started on the title. _The Secret Keeper_ …”

Was it possible to sound both disdainful and condescending?

“I suppose naming things can’t be everyone’s strong suit. It rather comes across as uninspired and a _tad_ juvenile, especially when the work itself is overwrought and painfully forced.”

It was possible. An icy pang formed in her chest, and she could feel the stares of everyone in the room. She thought she saw Omar and Allison sharing a look. She willed her cheeks not to redden, but it was useless.

“And this may be attributed to personal taste, but the first-person point of view—”

“Time’s up!” Corrine announced, hopping up from her seat and looking relieved. “Sorry to speak out of turn, Lucas. I know calling time is your thing, but I really need to run home and get the kids ready for a birthday party.”

“Oh,” Lucas looked as if he had emerged from a trance. “Right. Well, until we meet again, Wordsmiths. Remember our topic for next week’s discussion: the theme of self-realization.”

Aside from Corrine, everyone stayed behind, chatting among themselves as they repositioned furniture and helped clean up. All Fern wanted to do was slink away unnoticed. The door was in reach when—

“Try not to get too down, Fern. The first cut is always the deepest.”

Lucas had beaten her there.

“I’m sorry?” she said. She wanted out, but he had barred her exit.

“I imagine you’re used to praise,” he said sagely. “But how can we truly know what’s great if we don’t know what’s broken? It’s not easy to bear bad news, especially to one so wet behind the ears. However, the good news is you can only grow from here. You’ll get there someday.”

She wanted to tell him what he could do with his bad news.

“Thanks,” she said in a small voice instead, sure her cheeks were now glowing hot coals. “Um, I’m needed back home.”

Smitty beckoned Lucas to join him, leaving the door clear to make her escape. She left, concentrating on her pace, trying not to scurry away like a frightened rodent until she was well off in the distance.

 

* * *

 

“Thinks he knows everything…” she grumbled as she continued down the sidewalk. “At least I don’t have mutton chops so big they deserve their own area code.”

The cattiness of the remark caught her by surprise. She should have been able to comeback with something that at least made a relevant point. Perhaps it was all the time she had been spending with Jenna and Muffy while they watched _Fashion Police_.

Who was she kidding? Lucas had hit a nerve. A lot of what he had said sounded like nonsense born out of ignorance. He had picked up some two-dollar terminology, the kind of stuff he thought critics were supposed to say, but he had had no earthly idea how to implement it. That was all.

Then again, buried in that nonsense had been a few crucial nuggets that touched on things she, Fern, had wondered about her skill as a writer. It was a bit frightening that he had exposed them to her as if he had psychically bored into her brain. It was even more frightening that he could be right about them. If he was right about some things, could the rest of what he said be true? Could her first novel be one giant failure? Most importantly, did he have to be so mean about it?

A tear ran down. Her face was still so warm it felt oddly cool as it trickled its path.

Now that she was out and away from the Wordsmiths, what were her options? Going home, straight to her room and burying her face in her pillow was the most appealing prospect, but it was out of the question. The reverse curfew she was subject to prohibited such a thing until after dinner.

In a better mood she would have gone to the library. The last two meetups had left her feeling pumped to work on her new urbex story. Today? There was no way she would be able to concentrate on her work, not with the words of Lucas Olson, the mutton-chop-sporting smug factory, ringing in her ears.

Right now she could drown her sorrows in a malt, a giant, obscenely decadent and chocolaty one with a mountain of whipped cream towering above the rim of its glass. But she would not be able to face anyone at the Sugar Bowl or the ice cream parlor until she could get her tears, now flowing freely, under control. That would not happen anytime soon.

She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jacket as her march slowed to a trudge. For now she was doomed to wander with her thoughts, nothing to do and nowhere to go.

_To be continued…_


	3. Mudbugs

 

Buster was fully aware he was being a creepy stalker right now, but he was low on options and he had been handed an opportunity. He had been watching Fern for a few minutes from where he stood behind the end of a long shelf inside the Elwood City Library. It was Sunday afternoon, and Fern sat writing at a table located near the opposite end, her back to him.

He was not sure whether he should be proud that he had successfully tailed her here. Upon exiting the Sugar Bowl, he had noticed her several yards ahead of him, heading in the library’s direction. Fern was not aware that she had traveled the entire journey with Buster only a few paces behind, ducking out of sight whenever he needed to. The hem of her dark cherry-colored dress swayed about her knees and her flats tapped against the sidewalk as she walked steadily and with purpose toward her destination. He had followed, thankful for the advantage her noisy shoes would give him. Even when he had not seen her he had still been able to hear her.

And now he waited, sure he had given her enough time to get settled in before he approached. He even had an opening line.

“Fern! Fancy meeting you here!” he practiced under his breath.

It was cliché enough to sound lighthearted and jokey. He could be comfortable with lighthearted and jokey. Maybe he could catch her off guard and she would actually speak to him. She might walk away, but he doubted she would get angry enough to shout at him. Not here. No one in their right mind would cause a scene in a library.

_Okay, now or never._

In the distance, Buster saw a familiar girl. Sue Ellen waved at Fern as she approached Fern’s table.

_No. Go away._

But it was no good. Sue Ellen pulled out a chair and sat across from her best friend, her curls bouncing freely around her shoulders as she did so. She wore a dressy one-piece jumpsuit, navy blue with tiny white polka dots.

Had she and Fern been to the same event? Buster strained his ears.

“I was wondering where you went when you dipped out early,” Sue Ellen said in a cheery tone. “I should have known.”

“Was Muffy mad at me for leaving?”

“Nah. She just kept gushing about all the improvements she made on her brother’s apartment…”

Buster abandoned his post. He crouched and slid over to the next shelf end and kept low as he made his way down the aisle. He needed to get in a better position to hear them, but he also needed to stay out of their field of vision. When he neared the end of the row, he sank to his knees and listened.

“And then she updated us on the life and times of Jude Pendleton, of course,” Sue Ellen said.

Fern made a grunt that sounded like a closed-mouthed “oh” as she continued to write, not looking up. Sue Ellen regarded her for a moment with a look of concern.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Are you okay? You seem on edge lately.”

“Hmmm?” Fern said. “Oh, no—no, I’m fine. I just really need to get this all down before I go home. Dad’s back from a long business trip and Mom wants me to be free all evening so we can have a special family dinner. I’m supposed to go straight home from Muffy’s and help Mom make Dad’s favorite pie…strawberry and rhubarb,” she said after a sigh.

“That sounds nice,” Sue Ellen said.

“Blueberry is his favorite, actually,” Fern said. “He said so four years ago when he ordered it at his birthday dinner.”

“You didn’t remind her?”

“There’s no point. I know how it would go. I’d tell Mom it’s blueberry; she’d insist it’s strawberry-rhubarb and bake it anyway. Tonight she’ll boast to Dad that she made his favorite, and then Dad will take it in stride because that’s the kind of person he is. And Mom will continue to think she has all the answers when she doesn’t.”

Buster heard the bitterness in Fern’s voice, and he could not help but feel secondhand discomfort for Sue Ellen, who looked uncertain. As far as Buster knew, Sue Ellen’s family got along well. Her parents always seemed supportive of her hobbies and life choices, which could not be said of Fern’s mother. Buster bet Sue Ellen was having difficulty finding a response to Fern’s tirade. Instead, she took a different route.

“You’re never going to tell me why you’re being grounded, are you?”

Fern shook her head. “I made a huge, stupid mistake. Let’s leave it at that. And it’s un-grounded.”

Fern appeared to vigorously scribble out something in her notebook and huffed in frustration.

“Hey,” she said to Sue Ellen. “You write. Which sounds better—‘his blood-soaked hands’ or ‘his blood-soaked fists’?”

“Fists, definitely,” Sue Ellen said. “Or maybe hands? I guess it depends on whether his hands got bloody from committing violence or from being a victim of violence. Oh, I don’t know.  I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine. You’re the wordsmith.”

Fern made a dismissive noise.

“I’m not sure about that. Lucas definitely doesn’t think so.”

_Lucas?_

“Lucas?” said Sue Ellen.

“He founded my writers’ group, the Elwood City Wordsmiths. He’s thirty-six, he writes mostly science fiction, and he thinks he knows everything.”

The bitterness was back.

“Maybe he does. I submitted part of a manuscript—a novel I wrote this summer—for peer critique. I don’t think they cared for it. Lucas openly hated on it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Fern.”

Fern waved a hand.

“I suppose that’s what I get for trying to submit something so raw. I was proud of that novel, but I didn’t even take a moment to step back and look at it with a critical eye. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were eager to commune with people who shared your interests. There’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s not your fault if they didn’t like your novel. Lots of people _love_ your writing, Fern. Don’t forget that. But not every author is for everyone.”

“I know. But if I can’t get respect from my peers, then what does that really say about my talent?”

Sue Ellen did not seem to have an answer.

Fern sighed.

“Maybe I should give up.”

“On the group,” Sue Ellen supplied.

“On writing,” Fern said as Sue Ellen’s eyes grew wide. “I could always go back to the stage. It would certainly make things easier.”

“Oh, Fern…” Sue Ellen said with a sympathetic look.

“It’s so difficult,” Fern said, her voice wavering, “having to work against Mom with these guerilla sessions, trying to accomplish any writing at all. I’ve worked my butt off, and for what? To find out that the people who should get me—who should appreciate me— _don’t_? The response I got yesterday makes me question why I even try.”

Sue Ellen countered with what he assumed were comforting words, but Buster did not hear them. Someone’s throat cleared above him. Buster looked up to see an elderly dog woman staring down at him.

“If you don’t mind, young man,” the woman whispered, “your behind is in the way of the book I need.”

* * *

 

Buster had left the library. He slipped out unnoticed by Sue Ellen or Fern. At first he wandered without a particular place in mind. He could not believe what Fern had just said. She was actually giving up writing?

Buster had finished reading _The Secret Keeper_ a week after he had opened Fern’s email. He would have finished a lot sooner had he not been busy with his father. Who knew what was wrong with that Lucas guy; Buster thought the book was incredible. He knew Fern was good with stories, but he had no idea she had _that_ in her. For her to give up something she was clearly meant to do was unthinkable. It felt like something was wrong with the universe. Whatever Lucas had said to her must have been pretty harsh. It made Buster hate him, and he did not even know him.

He needed to calm down, to get some peace and quiet. Luckily he knew just where to go, and it was pretty close by. He stepped off the sidewalk and made a beeline for a narrow path that wound its way through the trees. The path would eventually lead him along the creek bank, all the way to what was known to him as Baxteronia. He worked his way down the trail, sidestepping the nettles and exposed tree roots that threatened to snag or trip him. As he drew closer to the creek it became apparent that he would not be alone once he got there, for he heard a voice in the distance. He considered turning around and heading back, but he recognized the voice.

_That’s gotta be Ladonna_ , he thought. _And it sounds like she’s singing._

He could make out the words as he got closer.

_“Been singin’ for my rent and singin’ for my supper_

_I’m above the below and below the upper_

_I’m stuck in the middle where money gets tight_

_But I guess I’m doin’ alright…”_

Both the creek and Ladonna came into view and, while not the most unusual scene he had ever laid eyes on, Buster did not know what to make of it. Ladonna stood in the middle of the stream, water flowing around her skinny ankles as she watched the creek intently. More unusual still was her attire. She wore a flowing dress the color of corn silk, not something he assumed girls wore to play out in the wilderness. She gathered the skirt with one hand as she waded downstream a couple of paces, still singing.

_“…I got a good old friend here with me tonight_

_And I guess I’m doin’ alright”_

“Well, this is weird!” he called out to her.

Ladonna gave a start.

“Buster Baxter!” she scolded him playfully. “Warn a girl the next time ya plan to sneak up on her!”

Buster laughed at the joke.

“What are you doing out there?” he said.

“Oh, nothin’ much. Just catchin’ some mudbugs. You know—crawfish.”

“And do you always get gussied up whenever you do that?”

Buster thought teasing girls was immensely fun, mostly because of the way some of them behaved when they were pissed off, Francine being the prime example. But Ladonna was different. She usually played along with whatever he threw out to her, and she typically gave as well as she got. Today she did not disappoint.

“Aw, this is nothin’,” she said, hamming up her accent. “You should see what I wear when I go frog giggin’.”

“Sequins?” Buster offered.

“You know it,” she said without missing a beat.

He chuckled. It was one of the reasons why he liked her.

“I was actually on my way back home from Muffy’s tea party,” she said, switching back to her normal way of speaking.

“You girls with your tea parties and brunches,” said Buster. “How come I never get to have scones and clotted cream? It’s not fair. I should complain.”

“I thought Muffy allowed ya to come to a girls-only once.”

“Yeah, but she banned me again after I tried to drink from the chocolate fountain.”

“Oh, right. I remember. She was awfully ticked.”

“Hey, I used a straw,” he said defensively. “So you just decided to come here and dig around in the creek afterwards?”

“I’ve been so busy with babysittin’ and keepin’ up with school and...just other stuff,” she said wearily. “I feel so scatterbrained lately I swear sometimes I don’t know whether I’m windin’ my behind or scratchin’ my watch.”

And there was another reason—the sayings that sometimes came out of her mouth. They sounded like jokes even when the sentiments were completely sincere.

“Anyways, I thought I’d come down here to the creek and clear my head a little.”

“Catching crawfish does that?”

“Well, takin’ your mind off one thing and onto somethin’ else helps. And this does take a bit of concentration if ya don’t wanna get pinched. It’s been a while since I’ve done it. Used to all the time back in Looziana. Wanna try it?”

Seconds later, Buster’s discarded sneakers and socks lay on the grassy bank next to Ladonna’s flats as he stood in the middle of the creek with her, the cuffs of his jeans rolled up nearly to his knees. The water was cold, and he had to make a conscious effort to stay upright while traversing the slippery stones and squishy silt covering the creek bed. It had been years since he had played in a creek, and he was tall now. Maybe that put him at a disadvantage where balance was concerned. On the other hand, Ladonna looked right at home out here in the water, never wavering at all, and she was an easy rival for Buster where both height and thinness were concerned. Buster supposed she just had a lot more practice at this kind of thing. Maybe she spent a lot of time out here with Bud or her other babysitting charges.

“I’m kind of nervous,” he said.

He wobbled a bit, and Ladonna reflexively caught him by the elbow and steadied him before he continued.

“It’s my first time. I’m going to need some advice from the experienced woman—tips on technique, what to do with my hands… Stuff like that.”

Ladonna gave a good-natured eye roll.

“First we’ll work your approach. They’re gonna know we’re here if we stir around too much. Get to where you’re goin’ and stay put for a minute. See those rocks?” she said, pointing at a cluster of stones about six feet away from them.

“Mmm-hmm,” said Buster, subconsciously mimicking Ladonna’s drawl.

She took him by the wrist, and he followed in tow as she crept toward the rocks.

“Now we’ll wait,” she said, her voice low once they had stopped. “The important thing is to be still.”

They stood by the rocks while Buster made faces, trying to get Ladonna to crack. Ladonna stifled her giggles with her hand, removing it briefly to mouth “stop” while she swatted in his direction.

“Now,” she said after a few seconds. “I’ll have to be quick. I’m gonna move the rock. If there’s one under it, it’s gonna swim backwards to get away from me. That’s when I’m gonna grab it.”

Ladonna upended the stone. A crawfish was underneath it and, just as she had said, it scooted backward through the water upon being disturbed. With little hesitation, Ladonna reached just ahead of where it was travelling and caught it between her thumb and index finger. She drew it from the water and held it out to him proudly.

“See? It’s not as hard as you’d think.”

Buster contemplated the tiny lobster-like creature and became nervous. The claws were a bit bigger than he had anticipated. He couldn’t chicken out. If he did, everyone would hear Ladonna’s story about how Buster Baxter couldn’t catch a mudbug that one time.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll give it a try,” he said.

He watched as Ladonna eased the crawfish back into the creek and let it go. A strand of bangs fell into her eyes as she straightened up, and she brushed it away with a wet hand, creating a damp swoosh in her otherwise smooth bob.

“All right,” she said, gesturing toward another rock in the cluster. “Try that one.”

Buster bent down to move the rock.

“Don’t get pinched.” she said before he could.

He looked back at her.

“Sorry. Go ahead. You’ve got this.”

He psyched himself up and then moved the rock. The crawfish underneath swam away from him, but before he could think too hard about what he was doing, he caught it between his thumb and fingers as he had seen Ladonna do. He gasped in equal parts shock and relief as he brought the creature to the surface.

“Look at that!” he said.

“Good catch!”

“I did it! Oh my god, that was pants-crappingly scary, but I did it!”

Buster examined the crawfish as it hung suspended in his grasp, its claws and legs waggling in the open air. Small, angry, and illusive—it reminded him of someone. He bent down again and released it into the water and watched it swim away.

“Ladonna,” he said after a moment’s thought. “You’re a girl, right?”

“Last time I checked,” she said with a grin.

“Maybe you can help me. Fern’s mad at me and I have no idea why.”

Ladonna gave him a sympathetic look.

“Aw, bless your heart. Trouble in paradise already?”

Before Buster could utter a protest, she cracked up.

“Just messin’. I know that was a rumor. Lemme guess—”

 She imitated a psychic by placing two fingertips on her temple while extending her other hand toward Buster and wiggling her fingers.

“Ya want me to use my _girl powers_ to give ya some insight on the situation?”

“If you could, that’d be great,” Buster said desperately.

He filled Ladonna in on what happened the afternoon Fern stopped talking to him.

“One minute she was all happy for me that Dad was moving back, the next it was crab city.”

“Oh, I love Crab City. They do a decent Lowcountry boil.”

“I’m not talking about the restaurant—” he began.

“I know what you’re talkin’ about, goober. I was just tryin’ to make ya laugh… I’m sorry can’t help ya. That’s just not a lot to go on.”

“I thought you’d say that, which brings me to my next question: You don’t think you could find out for me? You could maybe talk to Fern and see what’s bugging her?”

Ladonna balked.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.”

“Sure you could. You’re around Fern all the time. She was at Muffy’s tea party, too, wasn’t she?”

“Well, yeah, she was, but… How do I put this? Fern and I _are_ friends, but we aren’t close. It would be perfectly fine for Sue Ellen to ask her personal questions ‘cause they’re like this—” she said, crossing her forefinger with her middle. “Muffy could get away with it ‘cause she’s the gossip queen, though she’d still probably get shut down. And Francine could be all intrusive ‘cause…she’s Francine. But me? I may be Miss Congeniality, but I know my boundaries. I’m not fit to pry if I’m out of bounds. What would happen if, out of the blue, I hit Fern up for info about what happened between you two?”

“Um, she would be obligated by the girl code to fill you in?” Buster said hopefully.

“Boys…” Ladonna said, shaking her head. “She’s a pretty smart cookie. She knows you and I are friends, and she _knows_ we hang out a lot. It wouldn’t take much for her to figure out you put me up to it. And that’s liable to make her even madder at ya than she already is. Anyways, it’s a big ol’ can of worms I just don’t think I should open.”

 “Wow. I didn’t know girl politics were so complicated.”

“Yeah. You’re on your own. Sorry.”

“I just wish there was something—anything—I could do about it.”

“Why don’t you do something nice for her? A small gesture to let her know she was appreciated might go a long way.”

“I’m not sure what that would be,” Buster said resignedly.

Fern was at an all-time low. First she was upset with him, and now she had been ripped to shreds by her group leader, causing her to give up the thing Buster was sure she loved most. There was nothing that could cheer her up.

_Unless…_

“Oh my god, I’ve got it!”

“Got what?” said Ladonna.

“I know what I’m gonna do! Thank you so much, Ladonna!”

He scrambled to get out of the creek, not caring that he had slipped a couple of times, soaking the rolled-up legs of his jeans.

“This is sheer genius—the idea of the century!”

He plopped onto the bank and hurriedly put his socks and shoes back onto his wet feet.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.”

“What are ya gonna do?” Ladonna said.

“You’ll see!” he called to her as he ran to get back to the path.

* * *

 

When Buster entered Trident Books he was greeted by two huge displays, each on one side of the store’s main aisle. Though both were ostentatious and sensational, they could not have been more different from each other in terms of content.

On the right side stood a table featuring the latest trend to hit young adult fiction: The Romantic Zombie Apocalypse, affectionately referred to by avid readers of the genre as “RomZom Lit”. The star of this collection, at the very forefront of the display, was the _Deadlight_ saga, which had started the whole phenomenon. The unmistakable first book in the series stood out among the rest, as it featured the striking image of a slender feminine hand holding a brain, the glittering green title emblazoned above in the saga’s signature, elegant font. A sticker had been slapped on the bottom corner: _Now a major motion picture!_ A slew of other RomZom books filled the table, all ill-conceived cash grabs that were hastily thrown together to take advantage of the craze. However, the other offerings branched out beyond the young adult age bracket. There was something for every readership, from the tween-friendly but blandly-titled _Zombie Prep Academy_ to the bizarre and more adult _The Erotic Adventures of Zombie Sherlock_ , which capitalized on two franchises at once.

All of this was nothing new. Buster had been listening to girls—Muffy the most vocal among them—drone on and on about _Deadlight_ and how amazing its leading zombie Richard was for what seemed like decades now. What had really caught his eye was the display on the left side of the aisle. Another table stood laden with stacks of books, all the same. Next to the table was a standee baring the photo of the man who had raised a lot of questions from Buster not long ago.

Cobb Patterson stared back, an aardvark in his late sixties. An elbow was supported by the arm that crossed his body so that he could rest his chin on his knuckles in a pensive pose. Reedy and rectangular, he had traded his prison orange for a bespoke suit the color of slate, a favorite going by the pictures Buster had seen of him. Both his tie and pocket square were made of silk the color of dark blood, and his wavy silver-white hair, now much lighter than the gray of his pre-incarceration days, was perfectly coiffed. It was hard to tell which shone brighter, his gleaming silver cufflinks or his piercing light blue eyes. There was a devilish glint in those eyes, as if Patterson knew something everyone else did not and the fact secretly delighted him.

On the standee, above Patterson, was the tagline: _The first thing he ever stole was America’s heart._ Below him: _THE TELL-ALL MEMOIR OF A BUSINESS ICON_.

Buster inched closer to the table, compelled by curiosity. He plucked a book from the stack and read the title. _Money, Mistresses, Mayhem and Me_ had been superimposed over the same pensive picture of the man. He flipped the memoir over and read the blurbs.

“PATTERSON PROMISES EVERY SLEAZY DETAIL AND DOES NOT DISAPPOINT.” – ** _The Atlantic_**

“…A COMPREHENSIVE ACCOUNT OF THE MOGUL’S WILD LIFE AND MISDEALINGS.” – ** _The New York Times_**

“I GAGGED TWICE BUT KEPT READING. THE INEVITABLE BIO-PIC SHOULD BE RATED NC-17.” – ** _Entertainment Weekly_**

The guy sounded pretty awful. Judging from his cover picture, he was proud of it.

_I can’t believe Dad almost worked for him._

Buster had nearly forgotten he had come here on a mission. He put down _Money, Mistresses, Mayhem, and Me_ and continued down the main aisle toward the center of the store where the information kiosk stood. There he saw two clerks, one a young rabbit man and the other a teenaged aardvark girl with wavy strawberry-blonde hair. They were deep in conversation, becoming more audible as he approached.

“…swear I’m going to pull my hair out if this RomZom fad doesn’t die out soon,” the girl said. “Do you know how many rabid fangirls I have to deal with on the daily? And because I’m female they think I’m just as in love with their undead dreamboat as they are. They even ask me for _recs_. Do you know how hard it is to give recs for a subgenre you hate?”

The man laughed, shaking his head.

“Just wait ‘til the midnight release,” he said. “I barely survived last year’s. I have _scars_.”

The girl was the first to notice Buster.

“Hi! May we help you?”

“Uh, yeah, I hope so. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get a book published.”

_To be continued…_


	4. With Great Loss Comes Great Responsibility

 

 

 

Muffy stood in the front office of Mill Creek Middle after final bell, inches away from the door leading to the principal’s office. She dawdled while noting the black and gold door plaque.

**Miriam D. Brooks**

**Principal**

She had been dreading this all day, and now the time had finally come.

What would her mother say? She was the closest thing Muffy had to a disciplinarian. Muffy had never been one to get into serious trouble, and her mother was far from stringent or overbearing, but she always spoke up whenever she thought Muffy was out of line, instructing her on the proper ways to behave. She probably would not be very happy over what had happened today. Muffy did not like it when her parents were unhappy.

At least she would have her Infinity back once it was all over. She had felt naked without it.

“It’s okay to go in now, miss,” said the administrative assistant from behind her desk, mistaking Muffy’s hesitation for timidity. “They’re waiting for you.”

Muffy nodded and opened the door. Everyone turned to look at her upon her entrance. To her surprise, it was her father who sat across from Principal Brooks. Mr. Porter, a tall rabbit man with a shock of fiery-red hair stood on the principal’s side of the desk. Her history teacher did not look angry, but his arms were crossed.

It was unusual for her father to take time out of his normal workday for something as mundane as school business, but she was glad to see him. This should go rather smoothly.

“Um, hello,” she said to the silent room.

“Good afternoon, Muffy,” said Principal Brooks. “Please have a seat.”

The principal was a petite cat woman with a short, pixyish hairstyle that complimented her salt-and-pepper locks. Muffy had always thought the gray in her hair was a pretty shade of silver, almost the same shade that was slowly becoming more pronounced in her father’s hair. Despite her cuteness, the woman carried an air of authority. Principal of the Year awards for 2001, 2005, and 2008 sat in a row on one of her office shelves. Word had it that she had beaten Nigel Ratburn, who was fairly new to the principal scene, last year. There was no question this woman took her job seriously.

Muffy took the chair next to her father and tried to sit as primly as possible while cradling her backpack and handbag in her lap. She sneaked a glance at her father for some sign of reassurance, a look or a nod that said “don’t worry, muffin, you’re in the clear”. Instead, her father’s expression was impassive, and he was not making eye contact. His attention was squarely on the adults in the room. Despite knowing that everything would be fine, Muffy could not help but feel a bit small.

“All right,” Principal Brooks said to her. “You understand why we’ve called this conference, correct?”

“I understand,” Muffy said calmly.

Her eyes flashed to the desk upon which sat her precious Infinity, its mirrored screen gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. Soon it would be back in her hands where it belonged.

“Good. Mr. Porter?” the principal said, giving him the floor.

“Yes,” he said. “As I informed Muffy this morning, Mr. Crosswire, I confiscated her phone during my class for violating the student handbook rule regarding cell phone use, which clearly states that a student is not to use his or her cell phone inside any campus building during regular school hours. This morning I noticed Muffy keeping her head lowered for a considerable time, and when I went to her desk to see if she was feeling all right, I discovered that she had been a using a small stack of textbooks to obscure her phone while she participated in a chat room.”

_Ugh, how embarrassing._

“This is her third infraction this quarter, which is why we’ve called this parental conference. Muffy also has homeroom in my classroom. You may recall that it was I who wrote her up during that time two weeks ago for checking Facebook. As well, she received her first verbal warning from another teacher during the first week of school.”

“I do remember,” her father said.

At last, he turned to regard her.

“Well, Mary Alice, what do you have to say for yourself?”

She got it. He had to reprimand her in front of them. She would let it play out, but she needed to set the record straight.

“First, I want to make it clear that I was not participating in a _chat room_ ,” Muffy said, swiftly acknowledging everyone in the office. “J-Pen—that’s Jude Pendleton—was hosting a live Q and A with his Twitter followers to promote the new _Deadlight_ movie, and he was giving away tickets to the Hollywood premiere at the end of it. I had to Retweet in order to be eligible. That’s all.”

Her father gave her disbelieving look, then looked back at the two faculty members who were sharing clueless, slack-jawed glances. He was really selling the disapproving father thing.

“Is there anything _else_ you’d like to say?” he said pointedly.

“Oh, right! I’m sorry, Daddy. And I’m very sorry, Mr. Porter, Principle Brooks. It won’t happen again.”

“Regrettably, if this does happen again, the fourth violation will constitute a period of ISS, or in-school suspension,” Principal Brooks said.

She slid the Infinity across her desk with her fingertips, and her father picked it up.

“Muffy is an otherwise well-behaved student, but she will be held accountable just as any of her peers would.”

Her father examined the Infinity briefly, holding it as if he were considering the weight of it in his hand.

“I can assure you both that this won’t happen again,” he said solemnly. “Right, Mary Alice?”

* * *

 

 

“You played it really cool in there, Daddy,” Muffy said once she and her father had been dismissed and were standing outside the front office. “Calling me Mary Alice was a nice touch—very stern.”

She held out her hand.

“May I have my Infinity now?”

He stared down at her.

“Daddy?”

She gave a nervous chuckle. Why was he not dropping the act already?

“Please?”

“I’m shocked at the level of disrespect you showed in there. You were repeatedly caught disregarding the rules, and all you can say for yourself is that you weren’t in a chat room?”

“Daddy, chat rooms are tired and really gauche—”

“Do you know the problem with flouting the rules? It catches up with you. Always. It pays to do things the correct way. In the long run, no one can say you didn’t, not to mention your conscience will be clear.”

Muffy opened her mouth, but nothing came to her. She was becoming too antsy to keep this act going. She just wanted her phone back.

“I was talking with Mr. Porter and Principal Brooks before you arrived,” he said. “They are concerned that your work has taken a rapid decline in just a few short weeks.”

“Daddy,” she said in a hushed tone, keeping an eye out for onlookers who might still be in the school. “Can’t we just leave now?”

“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Muffy?”

“W—what kind of question…?”

“It’s an important one, dear.”

He expected an answer. It now dawned on her that her father was being totally serious. More than that, he sounded _upset_ with her. Muffy stammered a bit before finding her words.

“Obviously, I’ll be a successful adult…five-seven—five-eight in heels…and, of course, I’ll be a valuable asset to Crosswire LLC and all its DBAs.”

“You’re _sure_ about that?”

“Um, yes?”

What else was she supposed to say? It was her destiny.

“Do you know what it takes to become a successful adult?”

How could she forget? But before she could recite it, her father cut her off.

“Accountability. Focus. And…”

_Responsibility._

“Responsibility,” he said.

How many times had she heard this over the years? Her father had boarded the responsibility train not long after Chip’s disappearance, and he had been riding it ever since.

“Yes, Daddy. I know.”

“I know you know, pumpkin, but do you understand?”

Muffy said nothing.

“If you wish to be an asset to the company, you must be responsible. I can’t stress that enough. Do you think it’s responsible to have this out during class,” he said, waving the Infinity around as if it were a trivial thing, “reading gossip rags and who-knows-what-else while you should be learning?”

“It’s _okay_ , Daddy” she said flippantly. “We were just giving our state history _oral reports_. It’s not like we were doing something that matters.”

“I don’t like your tone,” he said. “Or your attitude.”

Muffy titled her head. It was if her father were speaking another language, the scold had sounded so foreign to her.

“I don’t care if you were watching paint dry on a wall. These are important years for your development as a person. Even the most mundane part of life can be an opportunity. To learn…to exercise patience…to show respect…to _earn_ it. This is about more than just your grades or your phone. How you treat people _matters_ , Muffy.”

This had already been the longest lecture of her life. Was this what it was like for her other friends when they got in trouble? Her father was staring at the Infinity again, the same way he had in the principal’s office.

“I hoped that you would learn your lesson after the write-up last spring. Now your grades… And it’s like you’re not even bothered by it.”

That was not entirely true. It was just that her grades seemed small when stacked up against the things that concerned her most.

“I’ve been letting a lot slide. I thought maybe it was middle school or other teenage issues you’d need to work through. I thought you’d find your feet again. Now you’re being threatened with in-school suspension. I think I know what’s wrong here, sadly. You’ve become too distracted.”

How could he guess that? How could he see what she had spent years trying to keep hidden from her parents and friends? Even Francine, the self-proclaimed BS meter, had not suspected anything until the meeting in the doorway. The only reason she had found out was because the incident had been so awkward and disarming that she had not been able to keep the mask of a carefree party girl from slipping. Is that what was happening here, her father had finally seen what a toll this was taking on her?

“You’re being taken in by nonsense that will blind you to what really matters in life,” he said, holding up the Infinity as if he were presenting it as Exhibit A in a courtroom.

“Now, I’m not saying you can’t have your fun, but there’s a time and place for everything, and a classroom is no place for something like this.”

Muffy should have felt relief that her secret was still safe from her father, but she did not. She watched in horror as he opened his jacket and tucked the Infinity into his breast pocket.

“Daddy, please” she sputtered. “We can negotiate.”

“We really can’t,” he said.

“But how will I call or text you?”

“I’ll make arrangements for you to have a basic phone for communication only. I wouldn’t leave you completely helpless. But the internet, apps, and social media gobbledygook are all going bye-bye for now.”

“You’re not going to give me one of those ugly, blocky things, are you? I can’t carry one of those around. People will think I’m a drug dealer!”

“No one will think that. You won’t have it out at school because you will obey the rules from now on. And no one will see you with it after school because you won’t be going anywhere. No shopping privileges, either.”

“ _What?_ ” Muffy shrieked in spite of herself.

“If there’s something you really need, have Bailey call me. I’ll instruct him on what to do.”

“No, I mean what do you _mean_ I can’t go anywhere?”

“You need to focus on your grades, so your freedom on school nights is gone. For now. That includes Sundays, by the way.”

Losing the Infinity had made her feel panicky, but this? This must be what getting punched in the stomach feels like.

“Not that. Please. You can’t take away my weeknights.”

“And why not?”

_Don’t make me say it._

“Because… Because that’s…when I visit Chip. He keeps Mondays open for me. Sometimes Wednesdays.”

She wondered if she was rambling too much, but she had to make him understand.

 “I don’t want to bother him on Saturdays because he works late that night.”

For a second, Muffy had thought that her father might cave. Before responding, he gave her a fleeting sympathetic look, but he stood his ground all the same.

“That’s not my problem,” he said, “and that’s not what you should be worrying about now.”

How could she not? Worrying about it was becoming a familiar pastime for her. She needed this. The less she saw of Chip, the more ground she would likely lose in winning him over and getting him to come back to the family. Why could her daddy not see this, that she was the only one trying? Did he not care?

“I’m not asking for a shopping spree or a trip to the Sugar Bowl,” she said desperately. “This is family. You wouldn’t ban me from the dining room table at home, would you?”

Her father bristled.

“I’m not trying to keep you from— Look at it as extra incentive to get back on the right track before it’s too late.”

He adjusted his tone to be kinder, gentler.

“I would never put more on you than I thought you could handle. You’re bright, and you’re tough. I want you to hold yourself accountable, to show some responsibility. That’s why I’m charging you with finding a tutor for yourself, someone who’ll help you focus on your problems and nip them in the bud. Do that and give me a B-plus or better on a quiz, and you’ll get your phone back.”

He patted the pocket housing the Infinity for emphasis.

“A good progress report, and the weeknights are yours again. Shopping, too. Pretty simple, huh? And reasonable, I think. Ehhh, muffin? You all right?”

Muffy shook her head in disbelief. She had gone blank, contemplating her father’s stipulations.

“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” she said in a quiet, far away voice.

Her father leaned over to kiss her on top of her head.

“I know, sweetheart. But life is full of tough yet important lessons. It’s best I teach them to you now.”

He straightened to his full height.

“Now, buck up. You won’t get anything accomplished by feeling sorry for yourself.”

He motioned for her as he led the way toward the school exit. Muffy followed several paces behind him, her feet lead-heavy, a dull and hollow feeling settling into her chest.

“What just happened?” she muttered under her breath.

_To be continued…_

 


	5. Kind of a Big Deal

 

Saturday morning found Muffy gently placing her mother's Longaberger on the floor outside Chip's apartment while she rummaged around in her handbag. She had once again brought breakfast for them to share, and while she hated bothering her brother on the weekends, she felt they should have a proper goodbye. There was no telling how long it would be before she could have a normal visit with him. With any luck it would not be too long before she could rectify her situation; she had plans later this morning to solicit the aid of a certain genius.

For now, the plan was to let herself in and quietly set up, allowing Chip a bit of extra sleep before she disturbed him, but she needed to find the key first. She shifted various items around in her cavernous bag—a packet of tissues, her wallet, a hairbrush, a small makeup and toiletries bag, the contact-only flip phone her father had given her…

It had only been three days since her Infinity had been taken from her, but it felt like a lifetime. Muffy had come to think of this temporary phone as the Drug Phone, and she hated it. It was ghastly, difficult to use, and it had crummy service. She would rather hurl it against a wall than use it, but use it she did, just as long as no one could see her do it.

It had settled at the bottom of her bag, the key she had taken from Chip's set several weeks ago. She had lifted it while he was in the bathroom at Lucien's, one of their favorite restaurants in Belmont. She was right to have taken it. She had reasoned that she might need it in case of an emergency. Lo and behold, an emergency had presented itself this week. It was as if she were psychic. Muffy inserted the key and turned it. She then reached for the doorknob and eased it open.

She had not entered a silent apartment, however. A report on the stormy weather predicted to come in tomorrow night was broadcasting from a 70s-era wall radio Muffy had convinced Chip to buy while antiquing. She had suggested it would be a great conversation piece and the perfect splash of color for his kitchen with its bright red speaker and shiny chrome-colored dials. And it was fully functional. She had known he would love it.

Chip was oblivious to Muffy's presence. His back was to her, and he was busy with the coffee maker, setting it to brew. It looked as if he had been up for a while.

He was freshly showered, judging by his damp hair. His shift did not start until later this evening, but he was already partially dressed for work in light gray slacks and a crisp white button-up, the sleeves of which neatly rolled up to his elbows. Muffy knew that Chip would complete the ensemble later by adding a tie and a tailored vest.

Perhaps Muffy was wrong, but she had always envisioned bartender attire as jeans, tees, and not much else. Maybe a leather vest with a chain or something. But Chip did not work in some dive. He worked at a five-star hotel. He was little more than a servant, sure, but by and large, he served the wealthy, and he was expected to dress GQ.

And Chip was not a  _bartender_ , either. She now understood the difference between a bartender and a mixologist. Chip had explained it to her during one of their outings.

"Think of it as the difference between a cook and a chef," he had said while they shopped for an area rug. "A cook follows a recipe to produce a meal, but he can't tell you jack about why the recipe works or what makes the food taste good. If you told him to fly solo and create his own dish, he probably wouldn't know what to do.

"But a chef knows exactly what he's doing. He knows the fundamentals of cooking so well that, not only can he prepare a perfect French meal from memory, he can also create a new and delicious dish that's entirely his own. I'm the chef. I understand what works, what doesn't, and I can  _create_."

She now had a whole new respect for what he did, even if he was a servant.

She observed her brother a moment longer, thinking. He could not have known she was coming, and yet there he stood, selecting a couple of coffee mugs from a cupboard above the coffee maker.

_Did I tell him?_

She was sure she had not, but she wondered if she had mixed up a text message meant for someone else. Upon pulling up her contacts list, she typically would have seen Chip's picture, the one she had snapped of him at the tapas restaurant a few weeks ago. But that was a feature on her Infinity. The technology on the Drug Phone was so primitive it was hard to tell who she was texting most of the time. Just yesterday evening, she had sent a text to Jenna, describing what she would do if she could play Seven Minutes in Heaven with Jude Pendleton. Only she had not sent it to Jenna at all. George Lundgren had answered, having simply typed "EW" as a response.

She was trying to recall if she had tried to send her plans for today to Francine and maybe got the numbers switched up when Chip turned, only to jump at her presence.

"Muffy!" he yelped. "Oh my god, you scared me."

"Hey, you're up early!" she said as she approached the pass thru. She lifted the basket onto the top of the bar.

"And it looks like you're all ready for breakfast."

"Breakfast? You're not supposed to come here today—is that one of my keys?" he said, darting to the end table upon which lay his house and car keys.

"Good morning to you, too," she said as she watched him examine the set. "I wanted to surprise you again, but I guess I spoiled it somehow. This is kind of an important breakfast. We need to talk."

"You took my key?" was his incredulous response.

"I thought you would want me to have it," she said defensively.

"Well, you thought wrong."

"What's going on, Chip? You're acting really weird."

But out of the corner of her eye, Muffy caught glimpse of a small brown purse lying in the floor just underneath the end table that held Chip's keys. Then she heard it, over the chatter of the radio, the distinct albeit muffled hissing of a running shower. Muffy looked down the short hallway and saw a sliver of warm yellow light shining from underneath the closed bathroom door. Everything came together, and Muffy gasped as she looked back to her brother.

"You had a  _girl_  over last night," she said.

Chip said nothing.

"Who is she? Does she work at The Waterfront?"

Not the most ideal meeting spot, but Muffy figured it was the most logical since Chip spent most of his time working these days.

"Uh…" said Chip.

"Can I meet her?"

"No," he said hastily, firmly.

Before Muffy could ask why not, Chip added, "You need to go. Now."

"What?"

"I'm sorry you came all the way here, Muff, but you can't stay."

He took her gently by the elbow and led her toward the door.

"We'll reschedule, okay?" he insisted. "You love Lucien's. I'll get a rez and make it up to you. And I'm going to need my key back."

Muffy allowed him to take it from her as she dragged her feet, trying to slow him down. She needed to tell him that rescheduling would be out of the question. Instead—

"Why are you giving me the bum's rush? Is she ugly or something? Oh! Is she a  _cougar_?"

"A cougar?" Chip said bewilderedly.

"You don't have to be embarrassed, you know. Love is love. Who cares if she's twice your—"

"Chip, I forgot to tell you…" a female voice called from the hall.

Muffy's jaw dropped as she watched Chip's companion enter the living area. The young woman continued talking as she poked her head through the collar of the t-shirt she was in the process of pulling down over her torso, unaware that Chip was not alone.

"You're almost out of detergent, so I threw my clothes in with the sheetsohmygod!"

Catherine Frensky had frozen upon seeing Muffy, a look of abject horror plastered on her face. She had covered her chest with her arms as if she were stark naked instead of donning Chip's Tin Lizzy's tee. The legs of Chip's boxers, which she also wore, peeked out from just below the hem.

"Oh. My. God." Muffy breathed as she processed everything.

She looked from Catherine to her brother, who fiddled with the key in his hands, refusing to meet her gaze, and then back to Catherine before smiling hugely.

"Oh. My.  _God._  You  _guys_ …"

"What are you doing here, Muffy?" said Catherine. "It's nine in the morning."

"My brother lives here," Muffy said innocently. "What are  _you_  doing here? Oh, wait. I know…"

"Get your mind out of the gutter," she said, freeing her long wet hair from underneath the shirt collar and giving it a shake. "Chip and I watched movies last night, and then I crashed here. It's not like it's a big deal."

_If you say so._

"After work, right, Chip?" Muffy asked him.

"Uh, yeah."

He was now brave enough to chance a look in her direction.

"Like she said."

"After your tiring Friday shift?"

And now he was looking away again.

"Ugh, you don't have to waste your time trying to convince her," Catherine told him. "Look, Muffy, nothing went down, and that's that."

There was a knock at the door that caught the attention of all three of them.

"Wonder who that is this early," Chip mumbled as he went to answer it, shoving the spare key into his pocket.

He looked through the peephole before opening up, revealing an aardvark man who looked to be in his early thirties on the other side.

"Uh, hello," the man said. "I'm Jimmy from next door."

Jimmy pointed to his left, toward what apparently was his apartment. Chip stuck out his hand. Jimmy looked at it a bit apprehensively before shaking it.

"I'm Chip. Good to finally meet you. Can I help you?" Chip said.

"Yeah…"

Jimmy glanced in the direction of his apartment.

"Look, I'm sorry to do this," he said quietly. "My wife asked me to come over here and talk to you about the…volume coming from your place last night. And hey, what you do is none of our business. It's just…our four-year-old niece is staying with us while her parents are on vacation, and well…she heard you and your girlfriend. She asked us a lot of awkward questions this morning. My wife wanted me to ask if you'd be willing to tone down your…enthusiasm. We're hoping we can get her to forget all about it."

"Oh, god," said Chip, sounding genuinely embarrassed. "I'm sorry. We didn't realize…"

Muffy could hear everything they were saying. She turned to look at Catherine, who had buried her face in the palm of her hand. Meanwhile, the conversation between her brother and Jimmy was really beginning to dissolve.

"Uh, yeah. Thought I'd let you know."

"Yeah, no prob. We'll…we'll be careful."

"Thanks a lot."

"Sorry again," Chip called as Jimmy retreated back to his apartment.

He closed the door, a defeated expression on his face.

"Yeah. So…" was all he could manage.

"Sure sounds like something went down," Muffy said with a grin.

She gave a soft squeal of delight.

"This is great. I'm so happy for you two. Francine's going to freak when I tell her—"

"NO!" said both Chip and Catherine, looking terrified.

"Muffy," said Catherine. "You're my sister's best friend and you're practically family, but if you tell anyone about this, I'll break your arm."

Muffy couldn't believe her brother's best friend turned lover just threatened her with bodily harm. Chip, however, was a bit calmer.

"What she's saying is that we want to keep this to ourselves for now."

Muffy contemplated them.

"So is this a friends-with-benefits-type thing, or…?"

"It's none of your business what type of thing it is," Catherine said.

"We're giving long term a trial run," Chip said. "We don't want to make a big deal about it until we know if it works."

"Long term? That means there was a  _short_  term. Ooh, this keeps getting better."

Catherine groaned.

" _You_  shouldn't make a big deal about it either," he said.

Muffy thought about it. She knew what to do in order to keep the lovebirds happy, and she  _wanted_  to keep them happy.

"Okay," she said cheerily. "Consider it done."

Muffy gave the Longaberger a pat.

"I'll just let you two have this, and I'll be on my merry way. Have fun!" she added in a sing-song fashion.

Muffy had barely taken off for the elevators before Chip was out of the apartment and in pursuit of her.

"Muff, wait," he said. "You're not going to tell anyone, right?"

"Don't worry. You're safe."

She made the motion of locking her lips and throwing away the key.

"It's not like this is the first secret I've kept for you."

He looked relieved.

"You're right. Thanks."

"So how long have you two been hooking up?"

"Off and on…for a couple of years now."

"Really?"

"Cat visited me a few times in the ATL. Things happened."

"You call her 'Cat'? That's  _adorable_. Oh, you guys are perfect for each other."

"Don't get your hopes up, okay? This really isn't a big deal."

"You keep throwing that phrase around—"no big deal"—which means it probably  _is_  a big deal, at least to you."

"Don't you have a doll or something to play with? Since when did you become such a relationship expert? Have you ever even been on a date?"

"Well, no. But I  _will_. Soon. You'll see. Besides, what I lack in experience I make up for in knowledge. I've read a ton of magazines. On the ride here, for instance, I read a fascinating article: 'Drive Your Partner Wild with Ten Easy Tips'.

"And I'm going to stop you there. I shouldn't be talking to you about this. You're my kid sister. It's weird."

"Let me guess—you're the gung-ho one and she's reluctant?"

"Okay, how do you know that?"

He asked it as if she had just performed a magic trick.

"It's a gift. I can see it written all over you. You looked happy when I came in this morning—before I startled you, that is. And look at you. You're up before ten and you're dressed. You're wearing cologne. When you add that to the fact that Catherine's the one who threatened me, you really don't have to be Fern Walters to figure it out."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Just hang in there. She'll publicly declare her love for you in no time. She must really have it bad for you."

"And how do you know  _that_?"

"Catherine doesn't date her guy friends. She's had a strict policy against it for as long as I can remember. She used to talk about it non-stop whenever she was on the phone with her friends. She's afraid it will get messy. Whenever she put a boy in the friend zone, he stayed there."

Chip gave a self-satisfied smirk.

"Does that make me special?"

"Trust me. Sooner or later, she'll have a toothbrush in your toothbrush holder, a drawer in your dresser, and vegan coffee creamer in your fridge."

Chip shook his head and said, "When did you grow up?"

"Sometime over the past five years."

Muffy absentmindedly drew the Drug Phone from her handbag and gave her brother a small wave.

"I'll just have Bailey pick me up outside. Don't let me stop you two from not being a big deal. Love you! Mean it!"

"Hold up there, Rick Ross," Chip said, eyeing the clunky black phone in her hand. "What's with the burner? I thought you had an Infinity."

"I do," she said hesitantly. "It's just not in my possession."

Chip raised an eyebrow.

"Whose possession is it in?"

Muffy knew what was coming.

"Wow, you're actually being punished? Who did you kill?"

"I got in trouble for using it during class. There was a silly parent-teacher conference, and now I can't have it back until I pick up my grades."

"Who's keeping it from you—Mom or the other one?"

Muffy broke away from his gaze.

"What else did he take away?"

"My—my shopping privileges and practically my entire social life. That's why I came here this morning, to say goodbye for a while."

"Over a cell phone? Wow."

"If you're going to start tearing into him again, please don't. I don't feel like hearing it right now."

"I was just going to ask what it's like being yelled at by the big guy."

"He didn't  _yell_. Actually, he was mostly just being a bag of—"

"Dicks," Chip said.

" _Mixed signals._  He acted like he wanted to comfort me one minute, and the next he was telling me to buck up and to stop feeling sorry for myself, and I never should have told you that."

He snorted derisively.

"You're not telling me anything new, Muffler. I just wasn't sure if he'd treat you that way. You're the golden child, after all. He loves  _you_."

"He loves us both, Chip. Equally."

"Really? Whose birth did he miss? Not yours."

"That's not fair."

"We've heard Mom tell the tale. He showed up four hours late the day I was born."

"You're twisting things. He was out of town on business."

"Because he cared way more about money than he ever cared about me."

"Stop it."

"And if you think you're untouchable because you're his favorite, then you're in for a rude awakening. This stunt with your phone and stuff is just the tip of the iceberg. He wants you to know you're under his thumb, and he's showing you just how hard he can press."

"You're trying to scare me."

"I'm telling you the truth."

"What happened in Florida?"

Chip paused. Regardless of the countless emails sent between them, all Muffy had ever been able to get out of Chip concerning the showdown at Omega Psi Phi were the broad strokes. She knew little more than what she had told Francine that evening in the food court. Chip had always kept the finer, grittier details to himself.

"Something I hope never happens to you," he said finally.

Muffy rolled her eyes.

"Whatever," she huffed.

She turned on her heel and marched toward the elevators. Chip called after her.

"But if it does, don't worry! I won't even say I told you so because I love you!"

_So much for a proper goodbye_ , Muffy thought as the double doors closed and the elevator began to descend.

_To be continued…_


	6. An Offer You Can't Refuse

Chip watched the elevator doors close, his displeased sister disappearing from sight. He had not been able to help himself. Upsetting Muffy had been the last thing he wanted to do. If he had to put a label on it, regret was not exactly what he was feeling at the moment. He had meant every single word. And as much as he wished she would listen to him for a change, he knew she would not. Muffy was stubborn, unyielding, traits she got from the big guy. She did not yet realize that reality was not whatever she wanted it to be, nor did she understand just how little control she had over it. Not in her current predicament. He supposed what he was feeling was an overwhelming pity for her. That must be it.

Maybe there was hope. Muffy had youth on her side. There was time for her to get wise, possibly even devise an exit strategy. And if she failed to do that, she would still have him, her brother, for support when everything fell apart. That was more of an advantage than he ever had when he left Taltech, Omega Psi Phi, and the big guy's influence in the rearview of a Jacksonville-bound Greyhound. The only things he had during that scary and unpredictable time had been his wits, his will, and  _her_.

He returned to his apartment to find her standing at the pass thru. Catherine was holding open the top flap of the picnic basket, inspecting its contents. She paused long enough to shoot him a questioning look.

"Steer clear of the quiches with the brown bits," he said, pointing toward the basket. "Those have bacon. Go for the greenish ones. Artichoke and broccoli rabe—meat-free but somehow still amazing. Oh, and Muffy won't tell, so don't worry."

He crossed into the kitchen and switched off the old radio, which was now in the middle of an ad for something called Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood.

"I knew we couldn't have been that loud," was her answer as she began unpacking the food onto the bar. "Your building just has really thin walls. I heard you yelling at your sister, by the way."

Chip was busy pouring coffee into the mugs he had abandoned on the counter earlier.

"Yeah, because her father is the  _Devil_  and she refuses to see it. Get this—he put her under house arrest and took her phone."

"For…?"

Catherine sounded only mildly interested as she considered a chocolate croissant in one hand and a cranberry-orange muffin in the other, ultimately opting for the muffin.

"I don't know, for breaking some school rule or something," he said as he stirred in some soy creamer he kept on hand for Catherine.

He handed the mug over to her and began dividing up the coveted fruit salad between the two of them.

"Good. Because if you'd said 'for no reason whatsoever,' I might have actually come close to thinking he's a monster."

"He is a monster."

"Sounds to me like he's a dad just being a dad."

"No, offense, but you don't know him. Like, at  _all_."

"Well,  _he's_  her father. If he wants to punish her for doing something wrong, I say let him. You know how spoiled Muffy is. She probably already thinks she's being treated unfairly. She doesn't need you in her head, reinforcing it."

" _I'm_  not the bad guy," he said defensively. "It just seems kind of excessive, that's all."

"You want to talk excessive? My dad grounded Francine for two weeks. For swearing. And once when I was sixteen, I came home from a party drunk off my ass. He made me deep clean the entire apartment the next day while I was hungover."

"Damn. No wonder you were all skittish about the Champagne."

He was referring to the New Year's Eve bash his parents had thrown six years ago. He and Catherine had hidden away from the crowd in the mansion's library most of the night, catching up before he was due back at Taltech in the coming days. Chip managed to sneak a couple of flutes from one of the tables. She had been hesitant at first, but she tried a couple of sips once he assured her she could cover it up with the mouthwash he kept in his bathroom.

He did not remember if the Champagne had been good. That had been before his brief stint as a sommelier, before he knew the difference between quality and trash. What he remembered was the simple thrill of sneaking away with the drinks. No one cared about the binge drinking on Fraternity Row, and at eighteen, he had not thought one tiny glass of bubbly at a party would bother his parents. However, they likely would have objected to their son encouraging a high school girl to drink in their home, especially with said girl's parents so close by. That act of sneakiness had been the highlight of an otherwise boring night, better than the fuzziness that filled his head once he had downed his portion along with the remainder of Catherine's. It had been the highlight, that is, until the unexpected kiss they had shared just after the stroke of midnight, which had been so sweet and thrilling his lips seemed to burn whenever he thought of the moment. The first few days back at school had been an exceptionally frustrating transition.

"I definitely learned to be more careful from that day on," Catherine said, picking at her muffin. "I thought I was going to die before I got everything done. So do you think my dad is the Devil?"

"Nah, he's cool."

"So it's just  _your_  father?"

"Bingo. You're so smart, Cat."

Catherine was not amused.

"I bet you and your dad had a nice talk about it when it was over, probably even made dinner together?"

"Cheese lasagna," she said.

"That wasn't what it was like for me. I hung up on him once, and what did I get? I got called an ingrate. He humiliated me on the front lawn of O.P.P. and then cut my lifeline. He didn't care that something might be bothering me—he didn't even ask. He only cared that I was blowing his money. There was no nice talk afterward, and the only thing I remember having for dinner that night was barbecue potato chips and Corona. I'm not trying to get into Muffy's head. I'm telling her stuff I  _wish_  I'd known at her age. I don't know what I'll do if he breaks her heart."

Too briefly, she caressed the nape of his neck, her hand hot from cradling her coffee mug, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"You know how sorry I am for what happened, but it's been  _years_. Couldn't you at least try talking to him?"

"Sure, I could try. I just don't want to. There's nothing I want to know about him, and he doesn't care about what I do. Besides, I'm not here to make nice."

"You had a choice, you know. It's not like you couldn't have gone to Portland instead. Just saying."

Before today, Chip doubted he would have admitted it so readily, but what Muffy had said regarding Catherine's ban on dating male friends left him feeling emboldened. And he could still feel her warm handprint on the back of his neck. He went for it.

"It was a choice between here and Portland, and you're not in Portland."

Catherine seemed taken aback, but something flashed in her expression that gave Chip the impression that she was deeply touched.

"I can't tell if that's the sweetest thing you've ever said or the saddest."

"Meant it as a compliment," he said with a shrug. "But I've got something that will make you happy for sure—the solution to your little dilemma."

* * *

Catherine had texted him the night before, asking if she could drive up and talk after his shift was over. They had met at a quaint all-night diner near his apartment. A mismatched duo, Chip was decked out in his usual vest and tie, while Catherine was still wearing dusty boots, denim, and flannel.

He had mostly listened as Catherine raved about how exciting her day had been. Rudy, the owner of the ranch and rescue where she worked, had given her quite a tempting offer. It turned out that the live-in caretaker, Shannon or something, had eloped with her boyfriend who was in the army or whatever, which now made Shannon a military wife. She would be moving out that weekend, leaving a vacancy in the spacious living quarters over the stables. Rudy needed to fill the vacancy as soon as possible, and rather than search desperately for and put his faith in someone he did not know, he had offered the position and the apartment to Catherine.

"'Who knows what kind of yahoo I'd be getting off the street? I'd rather have someone I  _know_  I can trust. That's  _you_ , Cathy.' I swear, Chip, those were his exact words! Can you believe it?"

"Damn straight," Chip had said, smiling over his coffee mug. "Rudy knows what's up."

"That's not all. I'd be on call, but I wouldn't have to pay rent. I'd only have to add a day to my schedule, plus Rudy said he'd make sure I'd get time off for Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, and High Holidays. And I'd get a raise."

Despite the late hour, Catherine had looked radiant with joy. She was not yet comfortable with PDA, so he reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it. If anyone deserved this upswing of luck, it was her. He took a long sip from his mug, wondering if she needed help with the move when—

"I won't be able to accept, of course, but it was nice to know he thought of me first. I have the best boss ever."

He nearly choked on his coffee.

"You're  _not_  going to take it?" he sputtered. "What the hell, Cat?"

"It's a great deal, but I already have an apartment with two roommates who depend on me for a third of the rent."

" _So?_  Angi and Tami can find another roommate. Unless you three made a BFF blood oath, I don't see the problem."

"It would be a hassle. Rudy wants an answer Monday, and I'd have to move in A-S-A-P. That's not enough time for Angi and Tami to interview for a new roommate. I don't want them to feel pressured to take just anybody. Really, I'm satisfied with knowing Rudy thinks that highly of me. I feel honored."

"You could feel honored and have a free apartment."

"I know, but my hands are kind of tied on this one…"

Chip could not believe Catherine was just going pass this up. And for what? Because she did not want to inconvenience others? That was just insane.

Wired from the coffee, he thought about it after Catherine had fallen asleep, long after they had given Jimmy's niece a dozen burning questions to ask at breakfast time.

He got up to take the prescription antihistamine he had almost forgotten, hoping it might counter the caffeine, when the answer to the problem presented itself. Catherine probably could have come up with this one, but she had likely been too hung up on being honored and honor bound to think of it. Not that he hated that about her. She had been the sole person he had trusted with all his secrets after he left Florida. He just thought that if there was a time for her to be a little selfish, it was now. He could not wait to tell her in the morning.

* * *

"Okay. Let's hear it," she said.

"You take the offer."

"Oh, wow, thanks for the advice…"

"Hear me out, okay? Accept the job. Tell the girls you're moving  _but_  agree to pay your share until they find a suitable replacement. Let them know that you want them to them to feel comfortable with their decision, but they can't drag their feet. You've been friends since first grade; they should be happy to do that for you."

Catherine thought about this, a skeptical look on her face.

"I don't know… Then I'd be paying for nothing."

" _No_ , you really wouldn't. If you stay, you'll keep paying rent anyway. Things stay the same for you. You'll have the same job, only now maybe Rudy's a little disappointed in you because you declined. But if you  _go_ , you get to have it both ways: you get job you want and the perks you  _deserve_ , plus you get to be all honorable and…stuff. Don't think of it as paying rent. Think of it as  _investing_  in your future. This isn't just a great deal; it's the opportunity of a lifetime, Cat. Who knows what doors this could open? If you keep building cred with the top dog at the ranch…maybe there could be a seat on the board of directors in your future. Hell, you could be in charge of the place someday. Tell me all that isn't worth a couple months rent?"

Catherine chuckled.

"There's no denying you're a Crosswire," she said. "That sales pitch was almost perfect."

"I'm willing to take that hit if it means you'll say yes to Rudy."

"You make it sound so…doable. I'll think about it."

"You only have two more days. Think hard."

* * *

When Chip left her side to freshen his coffee, he was not able to see the gleam that was now in Catherine's eyes, nor did he know that his remark about his willingness to take a hit had given her a spark of inspiration. Catherine was thinking hard, and not just about the job.

_To be continued…_


	7. The Zen Master…of Learning

 

The limo was a few minutes out of Belmont when something occurred to Muffy. She stopped sulking in her seat and pressed the control for the tinted privacy partition. In a swift and smooth motion, the window rolled down, revealing Bailey at the wheel. She crossed to the other side of the cabin, whereupon she stood on her knees in the seat and stuck her head through the frame, minding her ponytail.

"It is advisable that you remain in your seatbelt, Miss Muffy," her butler said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Bailey," she said eagerly. "You knew Chip when he was a little kid, right?"

"Indeed. Your brother was eight years old when I entered your family's service."

"What was he like?"

Bailey took what appeared to be a thoughtful pause before answering.

"Master Chip was a very, ah, energetic young lad, impulsive as well. Caring for him could be most…unpredictable."

"That's butler talk for saying he was a handful, isn't it?"

"He certainly kept things interesting. I shall never forget the time Master Chip discovered a beehive in a maple tree, successfully removed it, and brought it, still attached to a small limb, onto the estate grounds. He had nearly made it through the doors when he dropped it. Complete chaos ensued, as you can imagine. The buzzing was unearthly. It was quite an eventful first day on the job."

"Oh, wow. I've never heard that story," she said incredulously. "What happened after that?"

"Your brother was stung, of course. With his bee allergy being what it was, he wound up in hospital."

Muffy knew that, among other things, Chip was allergic to bee stings. He even mentioned having to use an EpiPen once or twice before, though she had never seen him actually do it. However, she had never known of a hospital visit due to his condition.

Bailey had known. He had known because he had witnessed it. It made Muffy wonder what else the butler knew about her family.

"I assisted by phoning an ambulance and staying behind to manage the bee situation. Your mother and father…why, they were absolutely beside themselves."

"Did…did Daddy and Chip get along?"

It was the topic she had meant to broach in the first place. She needed to hear it from someone on the outside looking in.

"They got on like two peas in a pod. Rarely did I see one without the other, that is, until you came along."

Muffy frowned. Bailey realized his faux pas right away. His eyes flashed in the rear view's reflection to regard her, and he was quick to correct himself.

"Forgive me, Miss Muffy. A poor choice of words, not how I meant it at all. I was merely providing a time frame. Master Chip was approaching eleven when you were born. He had developed his own interests and was becoming more independent. Your parents had a newborn daughter. Babies require a lot of attention, even with the aid of a butler. The two eventually went their separate ways."

"Do you think Daddy cares about him?"

"There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever. You need not fret about that."

She should take Bailey at his word; she herself knew it was true. Why was this not a comforting affirmation?

Because Chip thought otherwise. Why did he believe that?

"Do you know what happened in Florida?"

"That… That was rather a tumultuous period. I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss what I may overhear concerning the goings on in your parents' private lives. Out of respect for them, as well as the desire to remain employed, I shall keep mum on the subject."

_The goings on in my parents' private lives?_

What did Bailey mean by that? She had specifically inquired about her father and brother. She had inklings as to what Bailey may have been referring, but she did not like thinking about them. Dare she ask?

"What does that have to do with—?"

"We have arrived at your next destination, Miss Muffy."

The limo was parked outside the ice cream shop. She was here to take care of the first of her father's demands.

Could she hire someone else? Sure. But why buy CoverGirl when you can have MAC? Alan was the obvious choice; however, some of her friends had not seemed to think so when she had run the idea by them.

* * *

"If you're going to ask him, you'd better do it while he's at work," Francine had said as Muffy walked with her and Fern between classes.

"Or I could just call him."

"He might answer you if you call from your, uh, _new_ phone. Maybe he'll think you're an adult with a repair job."

"This _is_ a repair job," Muffy said.

"Well, all I can tell you is that I'm getting really tired of hearing the guys bitch about Alan cancelling on them and ignoring their calls."

Francine made a detour for her news elective while Muffy and Fern continued on toward the girls locker room to change for PE.

"He's always at the library," Muffy decided. "I could pin him down while he's there."

"Wherever Alan _says_ he's going, it's not to the library," Fern said. "Believe me, I really do spend most of my time there, and I've maybe seen him once. Francine is right. You should go to the ice cream shop. He won't skip work. Probably."

* * *

Alan definitely would not skip work. Muffy knew something about him, a benefit of being the gossip queen of Mill Creek Middle. It was her ace in the hole to ensure he would take her on no matter how much resistance he put forth. One way or another, she would seal this deal today.

It was only half past ten, but Muffy could see through the shop windows that the place already had a good turnout. It was warm today, though September dwindled away, and the promised storms were sure to usher in cooler fall temperatures after they passed.

Ladonna left the shop as Muffy approached the entrance. She gave a small wave as she passed, followed by Bud, Kate Read, and a blonde, well-dressed girl who she thought was named Emily.

Arthur, and Buster were already at one of the tables. Francine stood next to them while the three conversed. D. W. Read was perched on one of the stools, talking to Alan.

Alan gave a small nod of acknowledgement to Muffy and called out, "Your usual?"

"Please. Thanks!" Muffy called back as she approached her friends.

"What's up?" Francine said.

She was taken off guard as Muffy gave her a quick hug.

"What the hell was that for?" she said, looking as if she was not sure whether she should be worried.

"Oh, no reason," said Muffy with a wave of her hand.

_Sis._

Even if she was miffed at Chip, she could still be excited for him. And herself. It killed her that she could not tell, but it would be okay. Francine would find out soon enough.

"Oh-kay…" Francine said.

"What's up with you?" said Muffy. "Did you all decide to meet this early?"

"Actually, no. I tracked Arthur down here because I forgot to charge my phone, and Buster just got here."

"That's right," Buster said. "I finished an important project this week, and I thought I'd treat myself."

He pointed finger guns at the huge sundae in front of him.

"Then I'm off to spend the weekend at Dad's."

Francine held up a hand to stop Muffy before she could utter it.

"Don't ask," she said. "He won't tell us."

"If I'm successful I won't have to tell you. Everyone one in this town will know about it," Buster said before taking a huge bite.

"Like I was saying," Francine continued, turning her attention to Arthur. "I know we said we'd Pie-Bowl tomorrow, but Catherine got the O-K for me to visit the ranch. I wanted to take some pictures for _The Frensky Star_."

Muffy had not expected Francine to stick with that particular hobby for as long as she had, but _The Frensky Star_ , now a blog rather than a newspaper, was still going strong after all these years. Impressive still, it had a modest but steady readership, judging from the hit counter.

"We can Pie-Bowl another day," Arthur said. "I know you've been dying to go."

"I wasn't cancelling. I was asking if you'd be okay with switching plans."

"Catherine knows I'm coming?"

"I mean, I'm sure she wouldn't mind… Okay, I'll ask her," she said, taking her phone from her pocket. "Oh, _balls_ , still dead. Muffy, let me use your phone. Oh, never mind…"

Francine had given up once she had seen Muffy cross her arms defiantly.

"I forgot that I'm not supposed to lay eyes on the _Drug Phone_. C'mon, Muffy. It's not like I've never seen the poor man's version of anything before."

"Did you just roast yourself, Francine?" said Buster.

"Let me borrow yours," she said to him.

"It'll cost ya one kiss," Buster teased.

"Fine, as long as I can kiss you with _this_."

Francine brandished a fist at him. Buster snorted a laugh. He stood and retrieved his phone from his back pocket.

"You slay me," he said, handing it to her.

Francine took it and stepped away to make her call.

"FYI," Buster said to Muffy, "calling it a Drug Phone makes me want to see it even more."

"Agreed," said Arthur. "So are you here to ask Alan?"

"Ask me what?" said, Alan, who had just finished spinning Muffy's shake.

"Good luck," Buster said, and Muffy could tell he was talking louder on purpose. "If he agrees he'll be giving you more attention that he's given the rest of us in months."

Alan placed the shake on the counter.

"You're cognizant of my ability to hear everything you're saying, right?"

"And you're cognajent that you broke up the band, right? Face it, pal, science is being a total Yoko right now."

Alan rolled his eyes and continued talking with D. W.

Francine returned to the table.

"Okay, we're good to go."

She then began to close in on Buster with her lips puckered. It took him a couple of seconds to realize what she was doing. Once he had, he backed away, looking wide-eyed and terrified.

"Ah! Ah! What're you doing?"

Francine stopped and gave him a satisfactory grin.

"Proving you're full of it," she said, handing his phone back. "Thanks."

Buster blinked several times as he looked into the distance, clearly considering what had just happened.

"I think I might've deserved that," he said bewilderedly.

Muffy could hear Francine say "Ya think?" as she left the trio for the front counter. A stool was empty in the spot where Alan had left her milkshake, so she settled there. It was close enough to hear what he and D.W. were discussing. As she readied to make her solicitation, she listened in.

"Do you remember when you argued with me last weekend?" Alan said. "When you got upset that we ran out of Tropicandy, and I wouldn't sell you a glass of unfrozen base to drink?"

"Don't make it sound like I threw a tantrum, Alan," she said. "We were failing to come to an agreement on why I should get what I want. That's all."

"I thought I'd prepare a demonstration, and then maybe you won't get upset if we ever run out again."

Alan placed one of the small paper cups the shop used for samples in front of D. W. The cup was filled half way with a dark pink and creamy substance. It reminded Muffy of the medicine she sometimes took for a stomach ache.

"Have a taste."

D. W. eyed the cup as she held it before putting it to her lips. As she sipped, her expression changed from one of indifferent acceptance to surprise.

"Blech!" she said, sticking her tongue out. "I've been eating Tropicandy ice cream for years, and there's _no way_ that's Tropicandy! Is this some kind of prank? I bet Arthur put you up to it."

The girl seemed to remember who she was talking to and that she was more mature now, and so she tempered her rant.

"What I mean is it's just way too sweet. I don't think anyone could enjoy that. Not even Katie," she said, referring to her sister, "and little kids love sweet stuff."

Alan chuckled softly and smiled a smile that did not match the fatigue in his eyes. He had evidently pulled another all-nighter. The apron he wore did little to obscure his rumpled smoky-blue hoodie. Perhaps he had napped in his street clothes.

"Arthur is innocent, I promise," he said.

He gestured toward the cup.

"That is the exact recipe for Tropicandy that you've consumed for years. No tricks, just science."

"But how can it be the same? It doesn't taste anything like the frozen stuff."

"Well, because it _isn't_ frozen, you see," he said as he topped a waffle cone with two scoops of a lighter pink ice cream.

"Cold foods numb the taste buds on your tongue, rendering them less receptive to flavors. Therefore, all flavors in an unfrozen base must be more intense in order to be distinguishable in the finished, frozen product."

He handed the cone to D. W.

"That's fascinating, Alan," D.W. said dreamily.

"I've always thought so."

She took a bite and smiled contentedly.

"Now _that's_ Tropicandy. And here I thought ice cream was just churning, and freezing."

"Oh, it's so much more than that. It's a marriage, a harmonizing of proteins and fat molecules, water, sugar, and air—air is crucial—and those are just the basic components. What's really exciting are the endo- and exothermic reactions that take place when—"

"D.W.! Good _lord_! Are you comin' with us or what?"

Muffy, along with everyone else in the establishment, turned to see the source of the shouting. Bud Compson was back, holding the door open, looking as impatient as he sounded. Emily was behind him, her arms crossed, with Ladonna and Kate even farther back. Ladonna's brows were furrowed as she said something to Bud. Muffy could not hear it, but she wagered Ladonna was admonishing him for being rude.

D.W. shook her head.

"Honestly," she said to Alan, "some people can't appreciate the art of conversation."

With that, she slid off the stool and strode away with her cone, passing the perturbed Bud as she exited the shop.

As Muffy sat sipping her milkshake, a delicious mango lassi-inspired concoction created by Mrs. Powers, Alan milled around the front counter, not looking at her. Muffy could sense she was making him anxious. He looked conflicted, somewhere between avoiding her and eager for her to get it over with. So much for striking up a casual conversation and then segueing seamlessly into the subject. Oh, well.

"So… Hey, you," she began. "Long time, no see."

"No, Muffy."

"Excuse me?"

"That's my answer to whatever you're proposing."

"But you don't even know what I want."

"Given what I've gleaned from others about your punishment and how you won't stop bemoaning your misfortune, I presume you need a tutor."

"It's true," she lamented. "My life has taken a turn into hot mess territory. I'm having trouble concentrating, I totally bail when comes to tests, and having everything taken away that makes me _me_ isn't helping my morale. I've lost it all."

Alan did not look sympathetic. It was time to employ a little flattery.

"But you're the Zen master of learning. I was banking on you being able to show me the way."

"Even if I could, I don't know when I'd find the time," he said.

"You were just teaching D.W. about thermo-whatever, and you weren't even trying. Think of the mountains you could move with an hour or two."

"Allow me to show you something," Alan said.

He reached beneath the counter and pulled out his student planner. Muffy recognized the royal and gold lettering, official school colors. Her student planner was still in her locker at school, virtually untouched. She had let her Infinity manage her schedule, that is, until now. She supposed she might have to dig the thing out of her locker and dust it off until she got her life back.

Opening it, he set the planner in front of Muffy. It was astounding. She thought she had a busy life, but Alan's schedule took the cake. Not only had he filled in the daily lines, the miscellaneous to-do lists, and the upcoming tests blocks, but he had written in the margins as well. There was barely a space on the pages not taken by an assignment, a fix-it project, a practice, or a club meeting. Curious were the spaces that were taken not by details but by ambiguous initials or abbreviations. Some things were highlighted in different colors while others had check marks or strikethroughs.

"Oh, wait!" Alan said, waking Muffy from her astonishment.

He grabbed a pen from the register and wrote at the bottom of the page: "BAXTER—THORENS DUE 6:30 (move to appropriate date)".

"I almost forgot to add that one."

"I see that you erased some stuff," she said, noting the stripes of White-Out on the pages, over which Alan had rewritten.

"I planned a study on polyphasic sleep, but I had a lack of volunteers. I'm going to utilize that time to work on the science fair instead."

"I thought the science fair wasn't until spring."

_How do I know that?_ Muffy wondered as she took another sip.

"Oh, I've already completed my work for the fair this school year. I need to begin work for next year's fair. One must plan for important events in advance."

She could not argue with that.

"I don't suppose you could be persuaded to slap some more White-Out on these pages and pencil in little old me?" she said as she toyed with her straw.

"I just don't think it's feasible," he said, shaking his head subtly as he looked down at the pages. "There's practically nothing I could move around."

She had a feeling he was not being entirely truthful.

"What do you have to do that's so important? What do all these abbreviations mean anyway?"

His voice rose as he jerked the planner away from Muffy, making her jump.

"Look, it's just stuff I have to do, _okay_?"

Some of the nearby patrons fell silent. Francine, Buster, and Arthur were the most notable among them. No doubt they were curiously watching the situation. Alan was visibly trying to get a handle on his agitation. His shoulders heaved as he steadied himself.

"It doesn't matter what they mean," he said more quietly. "I'm committed to them."

The ambient noise began to pick up again. Muffy took a moment to process what had happened. She had been expecting resistance, but she had not anticipated an outburst. Alan put the planner away. He was back to avoiding eye contact.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "You can have the shake. It's on the house. Good luck in your endeavor to find someone."

He looked embarrassed, but there was something else. He looked…

Listless?

Distant?

Every word she conjured up seemed to both define him and somehow still miss the mark.

_He's tired_ , she supposed. _And definitely cranky._

None of it mattered. He would change his attitude.

She took from her handbag a glittering green _Deadlight_ pen she had received in a promotional fan pack when she had preordered the final book and clicked it.

"Well," she said, plucking a napkin from a dispenser on the counter, "if you're that adamant about it, I suppose I should just give up."

She scribbled a sum of money on the napkin and handed it to him.

"But before I go, maybe you'd like to see what you'll be missing out on?"

Reluctant, Alan took the napkin. He cleared his throat upon reading the figure.

"Are—are you sure you didn't misplace the decimal?"

"Oh, I'm sure."

"This is more than I earn in two weeks."

"And you'd be earning that _per session_."

"How many sessions did you have in mind?"

"A couple every week, until Daddy is satisfied with my grades."

She gave a defeated sigh.

"But you've made your position clear. I guess I'll just continue to—how did you put it?—endeavor to find someone. And I guess you'll just continue to save for a car until you're a college sophomore."

She turned to leave, slouching to emphasize her disappointment.

"How did you know about that?"

She sat upright and spun on the stool to face him again.

"I have my ways."

His eyes shifted. He looked as if he were debating internally, trying to determine where she might have heard that bit of gossip.

"You'll be getting your learner's permit soon," she said coaxingly. "How great would it be to learn the road in a vehicle all your own? I can just picture you in a hot coupe. I'm thinking cherry—no—candy apple red."

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Or something more conservative, if that's what you're into," she said. "The point is it can be yours so much sooner than you were hoping for thanks to me. And my father. And the fine folks at Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood, of course. What do you say?"

"I am well aware that I'm being manipulated," said Alan.

She could tell she was wearing him down.

"One might say you're cognizant of it. Do you want the gig or not?"

She knew what was coming. She offered her hand.

"I think I might be able to move some things around," he said resignedly.

"Fabulous," she said as they shook on it. "You won't regret this, Alan! When do we start?"

"Tomorrow? I could come to your house around noon."

"Great. Let's do it."

She began to gather her things.

"But there are things we should discuss before I officially begin tutoring you, things I should know to help me get a better understanding of your needs as a tutee."

"Awesome. Can't wait to go over them," she said though she was only half listening by this time.

She was searching for her wallet when something else occurred to her.

"I'll send you a questionnaire via email this evening so we can get a head start…"

"Yeah, sounds awesome… Listen… The shake wouldn't still be on the house, would it?" she said, looking sheepish. "My funds are kind of nonexistent at the moment."

_To be continued…_


	8. Alan Powers and Mr. Hyde

 

"Master Powers, Miss Muffy."

Bailey stood at the threshold of the Crosswire den, announcing Alan's arrival. Over the butler's shoulder, he could see that Muffy was lounging on the sectional sofa, talking on the landline phone. Rather than thank Bailey, she threw up the O-K hand signal, not missing a beat with whomever she was speaking. Bailey turned to Alan, gesturing for him to enter with a wave of his hand before leaving the two alone.

This was where they would spend their first tutoring session. It had been a while since Alan had been in this room, but it looked completely different from the last time he had been here. The furniture and drapes were new though still opulent, and the tech had been updated. The estate pool, which was now twice as large as it had been a year ago, was not the only thing that had undergone recent renovations.

The pool was another place he did not frequent these days. At the end of seventh grade, Muffy had invited him, along with the rest of the class, to a pool party to break in the enormous new addition. He had gone just to humor her, but he had spent most of his time at the table farthest from the water. He had chatted with whoever happened to be nearby, usually Mrs. Crosswire, who seemed enthusiastic that her eldest child would be moving closer to home. He had been the first to leave the party, ducking out quietly while everyone else splashed around while laughing and squealing over the blaring music.

Muffy liked her music loud. In fact, as she sat there on the sofa, the huge wall-mounted flat screen was tuned to one of the satellite pop channels, and he was surprised she could hear the person on the line. Alan did not hate loud music as long as it was the _right_ music. There was nothing quite like cranking up some Muddy Waters or Etta James when the mood struck him, though he could not remember the last time he had done that. Well, that was not true. He could remember clearly; he just did not like reflecting on it. That was unfortunate. That day had been such a happy day.

The sidelines at a pool party were not much fun, especially when the water made him anxious, especially when there were other, likely better ways to utilize his time. He had declined invitations to all subsequent pool parties for the rest of the summer, of which there had been many.

Not long ago, Arthur and Francine had planned a surprise party for Buster's birthday. Alan had been inclined to opt out of that one as well, which left him wondering if something might be wrong with him. Buster had been Alan's friend since his second year of kindergarten. The party would be at the Sugar Bowl. What was there to avoid? Nothing. He had merely fallen into a pattern of saying no. Of course nothing was wrong. He would go to the Sugar Bowl, partake in the festivities, celebrate with Buster, and send him off to New York with best wishes. Alan had been the first to leave the Sugar Bowl, too.

After that day, it became easier to decline any and all invitations. Sometimes he would accept, invariably canceling the day before or at the last minute. He was busy. No one could dispute that. If they asked, he would show them his agenda and they would cease their complaining.

But the complaints were on the rise again. Friends wondered why he couldn't make just one exception. He understood the guys were trying to be good-natured about it whenever they harangued him, all except for Binky, who threatened to pummel him if he did not try to live a quote-unquote real life sometime. Come to think of it, he had yet to receive a beat down, so Alan supposed that must have been Binky's unique way of being good-natured.

But there was nothing that could be done about their protests, Alan had to do what he had to do, no exceptions. Well, except for maybe one. Right now he was trying to get the exception to hang up by waving at her, decidedly with his right hand even though he was left handed. They had agreed to a noon start time and it was only 11:39, but Muffy had failed to answer her email the night before, and they really needed to get a jump on things.

Muffy held up one finger, indicating that she needed more time. She mouthed "Prunella", as if that made a difference.

"How's the scenery at Elwood City High?" Muffy said into the receiver. "Any hot guys?... What do you mean you _don't know_? I need names… So I can look them up on Facebook, duh. Then I'll have _visuals_ …"

Alan shoved his hands into the pockets of his soccer warm-up jacket and tried not to get antsy. He did not wish to get worked up again. He already had one incident earlier this morning, and his hand was still hurting from it. One was enough.

"Oh, and speaking of visuals, I just saw previews of the photo shoot J-Pen did for _Vanity Fair_ , and he looked totally GQ."

Still, Alan could not help but feel his frustration growing. Muffy's schoolbag was in the floor at her feet yet she had not taken out a single text. Instead, the coffee table in front of her was littered with magazines: _Harper's Bazaar_ , _Us Weekly_ , and _Vogue Italia_. There was another: _Cosmopolitan_ , or " _Cosmo_ ," as Muffy liked to refer to it. Last year, Alan had made the mistake of thinking _Cosmo_ was a magazine dedicated to cosmology, only to be corrected by an amused Buster.

"It's mag about cocktails and sex positions," he had told Alan after recovering from a fit of giggles. "I've never read it, and even _I_ know that!"

He read the cover lines.

_**AMELIA WINSTON: 3 THINGS SHE LOVES ABOUT BOYFRIEND J-PEN (PLUS THE 1 THING SHE HATES)** _

_**5 LOW-CAL VODKA DRINKS!** _

_**DRIVE YOUR PARTNER WILD WITH 10 EASY TIPS!** _

It seemed as if sex was everywhere these days. Or had it always been that way? Had childhood cast some sort of veil over his eyes that could only be lifted by puberty? Uncomfortable now—Muffy had surely seen him skimming her risqué literature—Alan averted his eyes and looked at the TV. Thudding dance-pop played while a slideshow of stock images cycled endlessly. The pictures featured attractive and hip twenty-somethings, all living it up in club or party settings or posing as if they would end up in one of the coffee table magazines. Right now, a beautiful cat woman donning huge sunglasses casually leaned against a brick wall, her long black hair as glossy as the red lipstick she wore, which, of course, matched her patent leather jacket, tailored to fit her voluptuous form. The woman hugged herself as if the jacket were made of a cozy material rather than something with which one could line a garbage can. Alan hoped the woman was warm. Aside from the jacket and a pair of black thigh-high boots, she did not appear to be wearing anything else. Before he could determine whether that was the case, the screen switched to an image of a house party, and the music played on…

_Straight through my heart_

_A single bullet got me_

_I can't stop the bleeding_

_Oh-oh_

_Straight through my heart_

_She aimed and she shot me_

_I just can't believe it_

_Oh-oh_

_No I can't resist_

_And I can't be hit_

_I just can't escape this love…_

Alan could not take it anymore. This was neither what he wanted nor what he needed to hear right now. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched off the television.

"You really should come to my Halloween party, you know, if I get to throw one—hey!" Muffy squealed. "That was the Backstreet Boys!"

Alan did not care if it was B. B. King. He took the phone handset from Muffy, garnering another "hey!" and said, "She'll call you back later, Prunella," before pressing the OFF button.

"We have work to do," he said matter-of-factly, trying not to let his voice quaver.

Muffy had already crossed her arms in a haughty fashion.

"You're early," she said. "We're supposed to start at noon."

"And you were supposed to fill out my questionnaire."

Her brow creased. She actually looked a bit embarrassed.

"Oh… That's right. I forgot about that."

"It's fine. I brought a copy with me."

Alan allowed his school bag to slide off his shoulders and plopped it down on the sofa, withdrawing a sheet of paper from the foremost compartment.

"Just answer the questions on a separate page," he said, handing it to her. "I'll examine it, make some notes, and we'll discuss how to proceed. Maybe we can actually get something accomplished today."

Muffy gave the questionnaire a once over, looking like someone who had accidentally begun reading the foreign language side of an instruction manual.

"Sorry," she said, " _why_ do I have to do this again?"

"Think of it as diagnostics. You wouldn't just start working on someone else's car without running an OBD scanner, would you?"

Muffy looked thoughtful.

"I guess that makes sense."

Alan was pleased with himself for using an analogy Muffy could understand so readily.

" _But_ …" Muffy continued, "You could always talk to the car's owner and get an idea of what's going on. You could talk to me, and I could _tell_ you what I need."

No, no, no. This was not how it was supposed to go. And she was poking holes in his car analogy. He must be slipping.

"We will talk, just after you answer the questionnaire."

"Don't you think all these extra steps are a little—I don't know— _anal_?"

"No," he said, testily in spite of himself.

That had really hit a nerve.

Why had it?

Because he had perfectly sound reasons for doing things his way, and she was being a choosing beggar, he decided.

"This is how I operate, Muffy. Do you want my help or not?"

"Okay, okay. I'll do your little survey," Muffy said, heading back to her spot on the sofa.

"Great. Thank you. Let me know when you've completed it."

Alan watched her rip a sheet of paper from a purple one-subject notebook before taking a seat himself, sinking into the plush sectional so he could study the state driver's manual while he waited for Muffy to finish.

He had just begun rereading the section on right of way when—

"What _happened_ to your hand?"

He looked up to see Muffy staring at him, or rather, his left hand, the knuckles of which were covered with several layers of gauze that was now soaked through with fresh blood. He had been hoping that Muffy would not bring it up.

"Nothing," said Alan.

"That doesn't look like nothing," she said, sounding concerned. "It looks like a lot of blood."

"I had a mishap in the shop this morning."

That part was true.

"I was working a wrench. My hand slipped."

That part was untrue.

"Sometimes my blood has difficulty clotting, that's all."

Also untrue.

To avoid looking at her directly, he instead looked at her paper, which was still blank. That hit another nerve. He might have clenched his fist, but he did not think it was a wise idea.

"Bailey knows first aid, if you need help with it."

"I'm fine, thanks," he said, hopping up to stand. "But would you call him to drive us to the library?"

* * *

As soon as they had made it to the library and settled at one of the tables, Muffy began the questionnaire again. Alan was relieved to be out of that den. It was quiet here, with fewer distractions and an actual table on which they could work.

From his bag, Alan removed the gauze, medical tape, and a bottle of ibuprofen he had smuggled from a cabinet at home and made for the library bathroom. His hand was smarting something awful. He dry swallowed the medicine and set to work on changing his bandage. His knuckles were puffy and shredded raw. He had tried and failed to apply a butterfly suture this morning. A narrow but deep gash between the knuckles of his middle and ring finger still oozed blood, a fact he found disconcerting. It just kept reopening.

He was taping the new gauze into place when his phone buzzed in his warm-up pocket. He had expected a message from one of his parents. What he got was a message from Muffy. He recognized the temporary number she had written down for him yesterday before leaving the ice cream shop.

**Will call you back tonight**

"What?" he uttered under his breath.

What did that mean? More importantly, why was she texting when she should be working?

Another popped up.

**Sorry about Alan. Don't know what his problem is lol**

With each message that appeared, Alan grew more livid.

**He refuses to tutor me until I take some dumb quiz of his**

**It's sooo boring! I want to cry!**

**Save me Prunie!**

* * *

"I'd double-check the number before sending a text if I were you," Alan spat. He had stomped back to their table, causing Muffy to look up while wearing a puzzled expression. He held his phone out so she could see. Although his hand was shaking—his whole body was, really—Muffy could read it.

"Otherwise, someone might discover how _dumb_ you think his quizzes are."

"Oh," she said, chuckling nervously. "I thought I sent those to Prunella… _Crap_ ," she hissed, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation.

"What's _my_ problem?" he said. "What's _yours_? Oh, I know—you're in need of a new tutor. I quit!"

Muffy stood up as if she were ready to chase him if he bolted.

"You can't quit!"

"I just did."

"But what about your car?"

"It's just going to take a while longer."

"Alan…"

"Save it."

He shoved the medical paraphernalia back into his bag and shouldered it.

"Please! I have trouble staying focused."

"That much is painfully obvious."

He turned to leave, but she was quick. She was beside him, grabbing his arm to halt him. His whole body seemed to seize up.

"That's— that's _why_ I wanted to talk to you first, so you would understand."

"Oh, I understand, Muffy," Alan said, shrugging out of her grasp. "You are wholly out of touch. You want to live in your own little bubble where the only things that matter are cute clothes, hot guys, and fun parties. You're upset because someone finally tried to teach you a lesson by taking your toy away. You want to sit around and whine about how horrible things are but put no effort into remedying your situation."

"That's not true!"

"I can't sympathize with you. I have problems of my own, real problems that you couldn't even _begin_ to understand. I'm out of good will, and I'm out of patience. Goodbye and good luck. You're going to need it."

He was leaving.

"I don't need luck. I need you. Please, Alan, you're my friend. I can't get my life back without you."

"YOUR LIFE?" he roared, rounding on her.

Startled, Muffy stumbled back, her eyes wide and full of incredulity that for a moment made her look like a small, frightened child. That look should have been enough to signal to Alan that what he was doing was bad, but he could not help himself. Something inside had snapped. Something else was in control. All he could do was go along with the shouting.

"You _have_ a life, and yet you elect to fill it with useless, vapid garbage!"

Patrons were stopping to stare at them. The library had been quiet before Alan had begun ranting, but now the silence in the building was charged with a palpable nervous energy. Muffy looked out of the corner of her eye, no doubt embarrassed. She dipped her head, letting a curtain of hair fall, obscuring the side of her face from them. No one even bothered to shush Alan. Who could blame them? Alan Powers, science geek extraordinaire, was screaming at Muffy Crosswire, noted fashonista and one of the richest girls in town. Chances were good they wanted to see how this would play out.

"You have _everything_! You're alive and well—you know nothing about suffering! You have the _world_ at your feet, and you're going to squander your opportunities! I should be home, working on things that _matter_ instead of wasting time on _you_!"

Muffy's mouth was agape. She heaved shaky shallow breaths. Alan waited. He was sure that he had just started a fight. However there was nothing but her stunned silence.

"What? No comeback? No snotty retorts about how lame I am? Come on! Let's hear it! What have you got?"

She blinked, breaking the spell she was under. In an instant, tears welled in her eyes so quickly that she was unable to stop one from rolling down her cheek.

Something inside snapped again. Just like that, his rage began to subside, like air leaking from a balloon. The hot anger that had swollen inside him cooled rapidly, replaced by an icy, stony pit in his stomach as he watched her wipe her face, sniffling.

He had gone too far.

What had just happened?

Muffy turned and wordlessly began gathering her belongings. Once her schoolbag was in her hand and her handbag was slung over her shoulder, she snatched the questionnaire from the table. She crumpled the paper with her free hand and let it fall to the floor.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" she said in a tearful voice that permeated his chest before hurrying past him, leaving him alone with a library full of gawkers. Alan wanted to pull his hair out, put his already battered fist through something else.

"What?" he said angrily to the on-lookers as he, too, made for the exit.

Muffy would likely be long gone in the limo by the time he made it to the curb, and that was okay. He deserved to be stranded. He would make it back home by himself, but he would have to do it quickly. Something was definitely wrong, and it was becoming all too clear what it was.

_To be continued…_


	9. What's Wrong with Being Nice?

 

"'Twenty-two-year-old Catherine Frensky of Elwood City works tirelessly to ensure the horses of Tarver Ranch and Rescue have everything they need to live happy and healthy lives'— _tell_ me that caption doesn't kick ass," said Francine.

It was noon on Sunday, and Catherine was fulfilling her promise of allowing her sister and Arthur to visit for the afternoon while she worked.

"It does sound pretty good," Arthur said to Francine.

If Catherine had known she would end up the subject of so many of Francine's photos, she would have worn more makeup today. She did not complain, however; it was for the greater good. If any attention, even just a little, could be brought to the ranch, that was a wonderful thing in her eyes.

The three of them were just inside the entrance to the rescue stables. Catherine continued to carefully measure out supplements and pour them into a green feed tub while Francine studied her through the viewfinder of a very professional-looking camera, a Bat Mitzvah gift from Bubby, narrating exposition she might include in her blog post.

"Do you swear on your blog as much as you do in real life, squirt?"

"You tell me," said Francine. "You read it, don't you?"

"Um, yeah…when I can," Catherine said, not looking up.

She could not remember the last time she had taken the time to read _The Frensky Star_.

"Are you going to shoe one of the horses today?" said Arthur. "I've always wanted to see that."

"Farriers do that. It's above my skill set…and pay grade. I'll let you help me bathe Axel if you want, but later."

"Hey, Chip!" Francine cried, and Catherine felt as if she would jump out of her skin.

_Chip?_

There he was, making his way down the hill toward the stables, a swagger in his step that he adopted whenever he was pleased with himself. Wisely, he was not yet dressed for work, instead wearing track pants, a zip-up hoodie over a tee, and a wide grin. He had bypassed the front office, which was basically just a small house on the ranch property. Completely unannounced. He was going to get her fired.

"'Sup, kid?" he said, returning Francine's high-five when he had reached them.

"I'm taking pictures for _The Frensky Star_. Do you want to be in one?"

" _No._ No, he doesn't," Catherine said.

Chip glanced quickly at Catherine before assisting.

"Sorry, Francine. I didn't dress for a photo op today."

"You're as vain as Muffy," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Yeah," said Catherine. "What _are_ you doing here?"

"I figured if I ever want to see my best friend I'd have to come to her," Chip said breezily. "Really, Catherine, I've just moved back and this is how you treat me? We're practically strangers."

_Overselling it much?_

"We're feeding rescues," Francine said. "Want to come with?"

"I'll stay a quiet observer, thanks. I was bucked off a horse when I was twelve. Broke my femur," he said, grabbing his upper arm.

"That's your humerus," Catherine said.

It had just slipped out. A former nursing student, she felt compelled to correct him.

"Whatever. Anatomy was never my strong suit. All I know was that it hurt a lot and spawned my completely rational fear of horses."

Catherine was about to ask him if he hated horses more than bees, when she saw Janice exiting the back of the office. Janice was an aardvark woman in her early fifties, with graying blonde hair on top of which she always wore a Stetson the color of indigo. She was also Rudy's wife and business partner. This was the part where Catherine got in trouble for breaking protocol, she knew.

Janice wasn't traveling empty handed, however. She carried what looked like an entire flower bed bundled in her arms.

"Oh, Catherine!" she called out, practically singing. "Look what I've got!"

As Janice came closer, Catherine knew she was looking at the biggest bouquet she had ever seen.

" _Pour vous_ , honey," Janice said, her eyes glittering with second-hand happiness. "Is it your birthday or something? You should've said."

She beamed as she handed the flowers over to Catherine.

"Me? _These_ are mine?"

She could barely say anything else.

"Someone sure likes you!"

"Who sent them?" said Francine. "Are they from Ben Grossman? I _bet_ they're from Ben Grossman."

" _Oooh_ ," said Chip, nudging Catherine playfully. Who's _Ben Grossman_?"

"Don't encourage her," she said to him. "I don't know who they're from, Frankie."

"Oh yes, you do. But don't worry; I don't care enough to be nosy."

But even as she said it, Francine reached over and snatched the card from within the bouquet before Catherine could stop her.

Damn her quick reflexes. Catherine waited, silently praying Chip had not been dumb enough to sign his name.

"'I'll wait as long as it takes…'" Francine read aloud. "That's all it says."

She sounded disappointed.

"Wow, Catherine," said Chip with a nod. "Somebody dropped some serious coin."

She knew him well enough to know he was only pretending to be impressed.

"Looks like," Janice said to Chip, "I don't believe we've met. You look kind of familiar…"

"Sorry about that, Janice," Catherine said. "This is my friend Ch—"

"Charlie," Chip answered for her.

"Charlie," Catherine repeated slowly. "Charlie, this is Janice Tarver, co-owner of the ranch.

"I hope you don't mind my showing up unannounced," Chip said, shaking Janice's hand. "Catherine talks about this place like it's Disneyland. I had to come and see what all the fuss was about. And now that I have, I've got to say it's beautiful here."

He was effectively charming the pants off Janice.

"How sweet. We couldn't do half of what we do here without our generous donors, and our amazing staff, of course," she said, giving Catherine's shoulder a squeeze. "You're lucky to have a friend like this one."

"Oh, believe me, I know."

Janice motioned for Catherine to hand the bouquet back to her. "I'll just have these back so I can put them in some water until you leave. They'll just wither and die out here."

"Um, thanks," Catherine said.

"Oh, and could you do me a favor, darlin'? Mrs. M's groomers can't make it today. Family emergency, so today is an exception. Since it's for _her_ … Well, you know. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Mrs. M was a wealthy woman who only boarded at the ranch and employed her own staff to see to her horses' care. She happened to be one of the ranch's top donors, so when she asked for something she typically got it.

"I get it," Catherine said with a nod. "Don't worry. I'll take care of them."

"You're an angel. And _you_ ," Janice said, freeing a hand from the bouquet long enough to point at Chip, "are welcome back anytime."

"Thanks," Chip said, watching her retreat toward to office. "It was great meeting you, Janice."

"Charlie?" Catherine said once her boss was out of earshot.

"It's my name," he said defensively. "On my driver's license and everything: Charles Edward Christopher Crosswire. I'm surprised it all fits."

"I know it's your real name, but why would you…forget it."

She figured it must have something to do with disassociating himself from his family and his Elwood City past, so she dropped it.

"Who cares about that?" Francine said. "Can we get back how pathetic that note was? 'I'll wait as long as it takes,'" she recited dramatically. "Holy balls. Ben is desperate _and_ unimaginative."

Catherine glimpsed Chip furrowing his brow at the comment, but he said nothing.

"Ben Grossman..." Arthur mused. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"I told you about him. Catherine made him cry when she broke up with him over the phone."

"How do you even know about that?" said Catherine.

"Eh, you know how Bubby likes to talk."

Catherine reached for a canvas bag hanging on a nearby hook and took out a bag of cheap peppermint candies. She handed the packet to Arthur.

"Here are some treats. Go out there."

She pointed to the fence that edged the sprawling pastureland, dotted with rippling hills.

"Hand these out to the horses that approach the fence—only one apiece. Remember to keep your palms flat. I want to return you guys home with the same number of digits you had when you left."

Francine looked impressed.

"Wow, Miss Protocol. You're going to let us go off by ourselves?"

"Just long enough to let the adults talk for a while."

"Will do. As soon as the adults show up."

"Scram," she said, pointing toward the fence again.

Francine and Arthur took off. Catherine watched as Francine clenched her fists, letting her camera hang solely by the neck strap. She mimed a crybaby motion. In a mock wail, she said, "But Catherine, I thought we were doing okay!" while Arthur stifled his laughter.

Catherine picked up the feed tub, eyeing it to check that she had included all the proper ingredients. She nodded toward the back of the stables, meaning that Chip should follow her.

"Did you hear Janice?" he said to her back.

He sounded so cocky. He was probably swaggering again.

"I'm welcome back any time… Do you like the flowers?"

She whirled around so quickly he nearly collided with her.

"I can't believe you'd do something like this," she said dangerously.

"Not the response I was hoping for," he said.

"Just where do you get off?"

"Well..." he sounded as if he was about to turn her question into a double entendre.

"Don't," she warned him. "I should have known something was up when I saw that stupid smug look on your face. You ordered those flowers and then drove here to see my reaction when they were delivered."

"Only because you'd kill me if I delivered them in person. So I want to do nice things for you. What's wrong with being nice?"

Nothing was wrong with it, not generally. As to what was wrong with it when applied to her in particular, Catherine could never tell him.

" _So_ …do you like them?"

She wanted to reach for him.

"They're gorgeous," she said, "but please don't do it again."

"If that's what you want," he said. "Seriously though, who's Ben Grossman?"

She gave an aggravated sigh as she continued walking.

"Just some guy. Not in the picture anymore, so don't worry."

"I wasn't worried," he mumbled unconvincingly. "You've just never mentioned him."

"Have you told me about all your exes?"

"Got a point. There's a lot of stuff you don't know. Did you break up with him for me?"

"It was coincidental."

"Oh. You could have lied and fed my ego, you know."

"Doesn't your ego get fed enough?"

"Not when my girlfriend doesn't want anyone to know she's my girlfriend."

The way he said it had been playful, but it still pained her, like a knot tightening in her stomach. It had also been the first time she had heard him use the word "girlfriend" in reference to her, and it simultaneously gave her a fluttery feeling in her chest to go along with it.

"'I'll wait as long as it takes'?" she said.

"For you to give your official seal of approval to this thing we've got going on."

He was walking in step with her now, making an exaggerated sad face.

"Please, Cat. I could be so romantic it'd blow your fricken mind. Just let me."

Fortunately she did not have to answer him.

"There's my boy! Hey, you! Are you hungry?"

In the last stall, at the end of the stables, he was already peering over the railing, waiting for her to show up. He was the horse that Catherine was already beginning to think of as _her_ horse.

"You have to meet him!" she said pulling Chip by the elbow as she went. Chip planted his heels a few feet away from the stall before they reached it.

"Right here's good enough for me," he said.

She left him. She slid open the stall door and stepped inside.

"This is Axel, our newest rescue, sort of my pet project. I'm helping rehabilitate him."

She dropped the food tub into its wall-mounted sleeve. Axel immediately went for it, making breathy, guttural noises as he ate.

Chip frowned.

"Whoa…what happened to him?"

"Neglect," Catherine said, petting Axel's mane. "We got him off a farm in West Virginia a couple of months ago."

His ribs protruded from his skin, he had sores that were still healing, and his chestnut coat was dull.

"He looks awful."

"This is great compared to what he was like when we first brought him in. He was skin and bones and in terrible health. Parasites, gaping wounds, malnourishment… He hadn't been groomed in ages, and he could barely stand. The only good thing about Axel was his temperament. I think he was happy to see us, grateful that we were there to help. I've been working on getting him healthy again, gradually fattening him up."

"He seems to like you."

"He likes everybody, such a sweetheart. He's made loads of progress, but he still has a while to go before we can adopt him out."

"Adopt?"

"To a forever home. As much as I can't wait until he's recovered, I'm going to miss him when he's gone. Come, pet him."

Chip held up his hands defensively.

"Nah. That's okay."

She sweet-talked and stroked Axel a while longer before Chip spoke again.

"This is kind of your thing. You know that?"

"Hmm? What's my thing?"

"You've got a soft spot for abandoned creatures. Take me, for example."

"Oh, please, Chip."

However, the more she thought about it, she wondered if maybe he was right. There certainly was something about helping the needy find their way that she could not seem to resist.

* * *

"Arthur Read, eighth-grader from Mill Creek Middle, hands out delicious peppermint treats to horses…that are kind of being A-holes and ruining my shot."

Francine groaned from behind her camera. Arthur had been trying to pose, but not _look_ like he was trying to pose as per Francine's instructions, while she took pictures of him doling out peppermints. The horses were not being cooperative, choosing to crowd behind the fence and vie for Arthur's hand instead of waiting their turn politely.

"Why don't you join me for a while? I can see why there's such a thing as horse therapy. This is kind of relaxing."

"Are you trying to say that I'm wound up?"

He had not been trying to say that, but if the shoe fits…

"I'm having fun. That's all I'm saying."

Francine thought for moment.

"I guess it couldn't hurt to take a break," she said before putting her camera back into its bag and gently lowering it to the ground.

She joined him at the fence and held out her hands so he could fill them with mints. As she handed out the treats, he took in her appearance, particularly her hair.

When Catherine had picked Arthur up, Francine had already been in the backseat of her car. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. It should not have made her look different, but somehow it had. He had pointed this out merely by saying, "Hey, your hair is up."

"I had to do something with it," she said as she sat there, clutching her camera bag.

Was it just him or did she sound defensive?

"It'll get in my face and drive me crazy while I'm trying to work."

"Oh. Okay."

Not long after they had made it to the ranch, however, Francine had reached up and removed the yellow elastic, letting her hair fall back to her shoulders.

Again, here he was, pointing it out to her.

"You let your hair down."

"Yeah. So?"

"I thought you wanted it out of your face."

"Well…it was giving me a headache. That's a real thing. What do you think Buster's big project is?"

A hard swerve. She had not even tried to be subtle, but at least she was attempting conversation.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Wanna place bets?"

Francine snorted.

"I'm too broke for that. Maybe he finally got Guinness to agree to time him while he eats a kiddie pool full of ravioli."

"I doubt it. Guinness emailed him a year ago and asked him to cease all contact."

They giggled over this for a moment but ultimately fell quiet while they tended to the horses.

"You know," said Arthur, "I wasn't trying to make fun of your hair or anything. I actually thought it looked kind of…"

_Nice._

"…okay."

"Please don't compliment my looks, Arthur. It's freaking weird."

"Why?"

"It just is."

"Would it be weird if Muffy complimented you?"

"Yeah, it would. Muffy never approves of my looks."

Francine was not opposed to praise. If he had said "great alley-oop during that last game" or something, she would have eaten it up. Why could he not compliment something that was just as much a part of her?

He decided to drop it.

"So what _do_ you think Buster is up to?" he said.

* * *

"About what Rudy offered—have you, you know…?"

Catherine closed Axel's stall, and the two of them headed back to the entrance. Chip was already sniffling a little thanks to the hay. He would leave soon so he could down some medicine and prepare for another night at the hotel.

"What you suggested makes a lot of sense," she said.

"And?"

Why not? It would not be the first time she had done something about which she had severe reservations.

"I think I'm going to go for it. I'm nervous, but I want this. I really do. It's still going to be a hassle, though."

"Take it from someone who knows, Cat: some things are _worth_ the hassle. I've got tomorrow and Tuesday off. I can help you get moved in and spruced up in plenty of time for…whatsit?

"Yom Kippur. You're getting better at remembering, by the way. Rudy should be here later today. Before I leave, I'll tell him and Janice that I've made my decision."

She took in the scenery all around them. Her new home was just a floor above.

"I can't believe I'm going to live here."

Chip opened his arms wide.

"What are you doing?"

"Congratulatory hug?"

" _Here_?"

"It's not like we're going to French. Come on. It's going to look weirder if you leave me hanging."

"Yutz," she said under her breath.

Catherine hugged him. It would not be that odd if the kids saw them; she had hugged Chip in front of her sister before. She just made sure to make it less tender and add a hearty pat on his back. Something about it felt freeing, though, if only a little.

"We should celebrate," he said when they had parted. "Please, just _one_ dinner date?"

He looked sad when he was pleading. She would feel bad about shutting him down. On the other hand, maybe it was time to test some limits.

"Two conditions," she said.

"Name them."

"It can't be in Elwood City."

That part would be easy for him. He hated it here.

"Done," he said. "There's a really chic veg place in Erie that's supposed to be all the rage with the granola crowd. And I heard they serve Cava. Ever had it? So much better than Champagne."

"Sounds nice. All of it."

She was not fibbing. It did sound nice. Too nice. The a-girl-could-get-used-to-this-sort-of-thing nice. But she was not caving. This was her attempt at an even trade; Chip just did not know it yet.

"What's the second condition?" he said.

"You have to show up at your family's place for Thanksgiving dinner."

_To be continued…_


	10. The King of Broken Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that this chapter contains depictions of emotional and mental distress as well as a mildly graphic but brief depiction of what could be considered self harm. Reader discretion is advised.

"Four hundred and sixty-one…" Alan said to himself, trying to stay as calm as possible while he hurried home.

The responsible thing would have been to call his mother to pick him up at the library, but he had paused before pressing her contact button. If he called her, he would have to tell her everything. After that, there would be no going back. He would have to admit that he was not in control, that he did not know better. There was still a chance that he could keep it together. He just needed to get home. Home was where the sanctuary was.

He walked on, counting backwards from one thousand using only prime numbers, a trick he sometimes employed to keep his mind occupied when it started to race. It was not very taxing, but maybe just taxing enough given the ache in his hand and the feverish feeling that was setting in.

"Four hundred and fifty-seven..."

_What if I don't_ , he wondered. _What if I don't know better?_

That was more than a little insane, what he had done at the library.

"Four hundred and forty-nine… That wasn't _insane_. I let my frustration get the best of me."

It happened to lots of people. If anything, that meant he was normal. Besides, Muffy had been impossible. No one could have had saintlike patience with someone like that.

"Four hundred and forty-three…"

_So your solution was to berate her and throw her to the wolves? You're supposed to be a problem solver, not to mention her friend._

"Shut up. Four hundred and thirty-nine…"

_You're arguing with yourself, out loud. Anyone can see you. If that isn't textbook insanity, then I don't know what is._

"Four hundred and thirty-three…"

_You saw her crying. Did you even consider that her inability to concentrate might actually_ bother _her?_

"No."

He had not considered that. Did it bother her? She had hit the classic Muffy talking points while on the phone with Prunella, but she had been missing her trademark…sass, he guessed was the word. She had not countered him. She had, in fact, pleaded with him.

_You know all about inability to focus, don't you? That's why you spend all your time in the shop, so you can obsess over the things you actually can fix instead of trying to help yourself._

"Be quiet."

_You're going off the proverbial rails, pushing your friends away, lashing out in anger… Punching inanimate objects—a new low for you._

"Four hundred and thirty-one, four hundred and twenty-one… You're a vicious inner monologue."

_But who could blame you for your behavior? The anniversary is coming up. It's been two years, and it still hurts_.

"Four hundred and one, three hundred and ninety-seven, three hundred and eighty-ninethreehundredeightythree! Why isn't this working?"

He needed his sanctuary. He had never been happier to see home, which was now in sight as he rounded the corner. He sprinted. He did not slow down once he reached the house but continued on toward the back yard. There was his haven.

Alan's shop was an outbuilding about the size of a large tool shed, which he and his father had built once his projects had taken over his bedroom and threatened to take up all available space in the garage. It sat, looking serene, next to his mother's garden shed.

In addition to other scientific projects, Alan had begun dumpster diving and fixing damaged machines and electronics, sometimes even cobbling them together to create something new. There was something satisfying about being able to make a thing whole again, to give it a second chance at life. His mechanical pursuits earned him quite the reputation in the community as a teenage Mr. Fixit, and he began getting calls from adults to repair one thing or another. If he could be satisfied _and_ earn some money on the side, that was even better. He was saving for a car, after all.

He used to spend a lot of his free time here, trying to relax his mind. Now he spent all of it here, because relaxing his mind seemed to no longer be achievable. He was chasing the dragon, so to speak; only instead of trying to get high Alan just wanted to feel normal again. The sadness was back. And the anger. And the flurry of what felt like a hundred other emotions, all waging war on him. They started out just tapping at his window, but over time they had moved to his front door, and they were collectively trying to break it down. It was becoming unbearable, and lately Alan had been trying in vain to reinforce the door before it gave way.

It had finally happened this morning as Alan sat in the shop, working on the Thorens turntable for Mr. Baxter. He had had a rough night with little sleep, and he had already been dreading the tutoring session with Muffy. To top it off, he was upset that she never answered his questionnaire. That meant either printing it for her or actually interacting with her to get his information, which inexplicably made him anxious.

Alan had nearly lost it when he snapped the turntable's drive belt, but he managed to keep his cool. It would be fine. He would just pay for another belt out of his own pocket and give Mr. Baxter an excuse for the delay, making sure to use a lot of technical jargon that would hopefully go over his head. Yes, it would be fine, or so he thought.

He had been trying to set aside the screws that held the motor in place when he lost his grip on one of them. The screw bounced off his work table and onto the floor, where it rolled underneath a set of shelves. The gap between the shelves and the floor was far too small for Alan's fingers to fit. Without another moment's thought as to how he might recover the screw, Alan let lose a primal yell and hit the closest thing to him, which happened to be an old clock radio he had set aside so that he could work on the Thorens instead. The impact had hurt, but there was a different pain somewhere that seemed lessen, so he hit it again, and again.

Sometimes Alan did not realize just how strong he could be. He stopped when something in the radio's structure broke, puncturing his hand and garnering a sharp intake of air from him. He pulled is hand from the jagged edge and saw blood flowing from his knuckles. He tried not to panic. He was sure that he could fix it.

Now, standing at the shop door, Alan reached underneath the collar of his t-shirt and tugged at the long, thin chain around his neck, producing a makeshift necklace, the pendant of which was a small key. He lifted the chain up over his head and then inserted the key into the padlock that secured the shop's entrance. He turned it, or he tried to turn it, at least. The lock was sticking.

"WHAT?" he shrieked.

He awkwardly tried turning it again, using all the strength in his right hand, for his left was now too swollen to use much force. The key still would not budge.

"No. No!"

There had to be another way in. He let his school bag fall to the ground and scrambled to the garage.

"Something to cut the lock—I know just what I need," he said, thinking fast as he surveyed the contents of the garage. "I need..."

He needed bolt cutters. He was sure his father had a pair. After what seemed like a lifetime of frantically pulling out drawers, upending storage bins, and emptying shelves, he gave up the hunt, choosing instead to go for the reciprocating saw, which had been on one of the shelves but was now on the cement floor of the garage, still in its case. Not ideal, but it would certainly get the job done. There was only one problem. The saw's cord could not have been more than eight feet long. Unless Alan was mistaken, it was at least seventy-five feet from the shop to the nearest outlet in the garage. He would need an extension cord. Well, that was no problem at all. There was beautiful bright red one hanging from a pegboard hook. Alan yanked it off the wall. He plugged the cord into an outlet and began unfurling it as he backed out of the garage and around the corner toward the shop, the saw tucked under one arm. He stopped when he realized he would never make it to the shop.

"OH, YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING ME!"

The cord was only fifty feet long, tops. He dropped everything where he stood.

He needed something, anything that would break that stupid lock. Right now he would go for breaking the whole door down if he had to. That brought to mind something he thought he had glimpsed in one corner of the garage where the camping equipment was stored.

Alan emerged from the garage once again with a hatchet grasped firmly in his right hand and stalked back toward the shop. A breeze had picked up, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck and giving him a momentary chill. Overhead, the sky was becoming more overcast. It would storm later, all the more reason to get this over with.

The key was still stuck in the padlock, its chain swaying benignly in the wind. Mocking him. Not for much longer.

_Even if you manage to get in, this isn't going to work, and you know it. Do you want to continue to ignore your problems, or do you actually want to get better?_

"All I need is to get some peace, and I _can_ get better."

_This reeks of desperation. You are beyond helping yourself. You couldn't fix your hand with tape and gauze, and you can't fix what's broken inside you no matter how much you tinker._

"Please, I have to try again!"

_You are so stubborn, Alan Powers, and one day it'll be to your detriment…_

Alan gasped.

It was a memory from years ago, but the voice— _her_ voice—had been clear and so full of life that Alan could have sworn she had just spoken right in front of him. She had been joking when she had initially said it, but it was applicable to this situation all the same.

For some time now, Alan had felt as if he had been adrift on a still lake, alone in a tiny canoe on a foggy, moonless night. He knew full well that the shore was out there somewhere. He desperately wanted to be out of the water, to feel safe on dry land, but he was unable to see it clearly and unable to devise a strategy that would get him there no matter how hard he tried.

After everything that happened today, the water was now churning, and the canoe was rocking. If he did not come up with something, the rocking would pitch him out of the boat and into the water. From that point, it would be sink or swim, and he would surely die.

But now his memory of her had surfaced, pulling a life vest from thin air…

A pocket dimension, she would have explained with a roll of her eyes. Not thin air…

And she had handed the vest to him. Everything surrounding him was terrifying, but there was only one way to get to shore, and that was to get into the water first, no matter how much he hated it.

"She was right," Alan murmured.

He dropped the hatchet, nudging it away from him with his foot. Tears stung his eyes, and he pressed his hands to his face.

He said in a muffled voice, "What am I doing?"

* * *

An hour later, Mrs. Powers arrived home to find the garage door open. Her initial thought was that their home had been burgled. All the belongings her family kept in the garage seemed to be strewn everywhere. Perhaps the perpetrators had been looking for something in particular. She would have backed out of the driveway and called the police if a second thought had not driven her to stay: Alan was due back from his tutoring session by now, and she had to know that he was okay. She got out of the car, leaving the door open in case she needed to break for it. Holding her phone close to her chest, ready to call 9-1-1 at any moment, she approached, only for the red extension cord snaking around the corner of the garage to catch her eye.

Mother's instinct took over. This was not the work of burglars, she was pretty sure. She made a detour to the back of the house, still proceeding with caution, still nervous about what she might find. She followed the cord until she found it abandoned in the grass along with the reciprocating saw. Beyond that, Alan sat on the ground in front of his shop, leaning against the door. His head was down, his arms wrapped around himself as if he were suffering a stomach ache.

"Alan, honey," she called, "what's wrong?"

She quickened her pace until she was in front of him, stopping briefly to take in the hatchet a few paces away on the ground. She knelt beside him.

"Tell me."

He looked squarely at her, and it was clear that he had been crying.

"I haven't been well for a while, Mom," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry I kept it from you."

She pulled him close. He was burning up.

"It's okay, baby. We'll get you help."

"I— I need her again. Will you call her?"

"I will. I promise I will, just as soon as possible. I'll—what in the world did you do to your hand?"

_To be continued…_


	11. The Struggle is Real

To say Muffy had been distraught after Alan yelled at her was an understatement. She had not made it to the limo before she began sobbing in earnest. Bailey had picked up on her distress immediately.

"Are you all right, Miss Muffy?" he said after she slammed the door.

"Drive!" she said through her tears.

"Er… Where to, Miss—"

"I don't care! Anywhere away from Alan Powers!"

"And your father?"

"Yeah, him, too! Anywhere away from those two people!"

Bailey had chosen to drive to Wyunga, where he parked near a limousine service to remain inconspicuous, lest her father catch her out doing something other than studying.

It had taken quite some time for Muffy to regain her composure. Every time her tears would begin to subside, she would think about what happened at the library, and a fresh wave would start.

All she had wanted was to explain her situation to Alan, maybe not tell him every single detail, but give him enough so that he would understand her struggle. He was the smartest person she knew; she had been sure that he would have thought of something to help her. He was responsible, too. Maybe he could have coached her, encouraged her to hold herself accountable as well as regain her focus.

She was hearing her daddy's lecture again.

Instead, Alan had been distant and irritable. Instead, he had wanted her to fill out some cold and clinical form that could not have explained to him how helpless and alone she felt. The old Alan would have been eager to help, would have seen the necessity of listening to her. He used to be nice.

Muffy did not know what had changed him so much. Looking back, he had been off for a while. It was only after he became openly evasive and antisocial had it really seemed to click. Something had hit him hard over the summer.

His attitude had not been the only change. While trying not to cower before him during his meltdown, she could not help but notice how physically imposing he could be. He had grown tall and broad-shouldered. Combine his physique with the fierce gleam in his eyes and bloody bandage around his hand, and Alan had looked like a crazed lunatic looking for another fistfight. He had been rather frightening, and the things he had said hurt a lot.

Muffy had let him get away with it, too. Had she not been off her game, she was pretty sure she could have sent Alan home crying instead of the other way around. But she had already been feeling low, and Alan had caught her completely off guard, sucker punching her with a series of personal attacks.

Being told she was a waste of time had hurt the most.

_Tell me how you really feel, Alan._

She was on the verge of another crying jag when there was a knock at her window, startling her. She rolled the window down to see Bailey standing outside.

"You have water, yes?" he said.

"Um, what?"

"In the mini-fridge, Miss Muffy. Bottled water? I'm sure I stocked it this week."

"I…think so?"

Bailey extended an open, expectant hand.

"If I may…"

Muffy supposed that meant to fetch him a bottle of water, unusual for someone who was supposed to serve her. Curious more than anything at the moment, she would do as he requested. She reached for the tiny refrigerator door.

"Still is fine," he added.

Instead of going for sparkling water, which she typically preferred, she grabbed a bottle of spring water and handed it to Bailey.

"Thank you, Miss Muffy. One moment…"

Bailey took from his jacket pocket a handkerchief and saturated it with the water. He then wrung it out and handed it to Muffy.

"Not to worry. It's clean," he said.

Muffy took the handkerchief but gave Bailey a perplexed look.

"Apply it to your face, Miss Muffy. It will help calm you and sooth the redness in your eyes. Please."

Muffy did so. It did nothing for her tender feelings, but it was cool to the touch. The burning in her eyes began to alleviate, as well as the overheated, puffy feeling in her face.

"Better?"

"It's helping. Thanks."

"Wait here," he said.

Bailey locked the automobile, and he was gone, crossing the parking lot to the convenience store next door and entering.

While he was doing whatever he was doing, Muffy contemplated her options.

_I'll have to find another tutor. If I don't, I'll have to tell Daddy that Alan quit. He'll want to know why, and he'll be upset for sure when he finds out. And if I do get a new tutor, Daddy will want to know what happened to Alan, and he'll_ still _be upset when he finds out._

He might extend her punishment, or he might somehow make it worse.

Maybe it would not be all bad. Option B showed some promise. If she procured a new tutor on her own, without her father having to take matters into his own hands, then maybe he would see it as an act of responsibility on her part, even if she had messed up so royally. It sounded like the best plan, but what did she know? Texting while at the library had seemed like a solid idea, too.

She wished that she could restart the day. Or rewind the past five years. Or have never overheard how upset her mother had been with her father after Chip disappeared.

" _Unbelievable, Edward. You are absolutely unbelievable."_

Regret had never come easy to her, but now it seemed as if rolling back the clock was the only thing that would truly make her happy.

It had sucked, realizing that her family was just as vulnerable as any. It sucked now, thinking that maybe time did not heal all wounds and absence did not make the heart grow fonder. Her thoughts were high jacked by the fear that she would never be able help put things back the way they were without the aid of time travel.

Bailey was back, holding a sizable plastic bottle of cherry-flavored sports drink.

"Hydration is the key to bouncing back when one has shed as many tears as you have this afternoon," he said in a forced cheerful voice as he handed her the massive red beverage. "I should think it will do wonders for your headache."

He had been perceptive. There was a dull ache developing behind her eyes. Muffy wondered if Bailey had paid for the drink with his own money. He must have. Her funds were still frozen without her father's permission. She could easily cry again, but for an altogether different reason.

"Thank you, Bailey," she said, sniffling.

"Not at all, Miss Muffy."

"Things are worse than ever," she said softly. "I lost my tutor. I don't know what I was thinking, sending those texts."

"A major step backwards," he agreed. "However, all is not lost, even if you are starting back at square one."

"I'm afraid it's more like square zero for me. I made Alan mad. He screamed at me. I'm going to have to tell Daddy about it soon, if I can't find another tutor. Who knows what's going to happen after that? Chip just got here, and I can't visit him anymore… And…and it's all my fault. If only I had just focused… But I can't! It's— It's just easier to make myself not think because…because…"

She was going to lose it again.

"There, there, there, Miss Muffy. Try not to get worked up."

He stooped to level himself with her, his tone no longer dutiful but gentle, somber.

"I am certain that you shall pull through no matter what happens. School is tomorrow. When you see Master Powers again, perhaps the two of you shall be able to work things out."

He straightened up.

"I dare say we should travel. You are due back from your session soon. Do relax and have something to drink."

The bottle was more than half empty by the time they made it back to Elwood City. Between gulps, Muffy had held the moistened handkerchief near the A/C vent several times to cool it before patting her face down. Once she was physically better, she had quickly reapplied a bit of makeup. She looked almost as good as new, even if she did not feel that way. Now all that was left was to find a tutor before she saw her father again.

"Hiya, muffin!"

_Oh, boy…._

She had stepped out of the limo and was heading to the front door when her father beckoned her from the open garage.

"Hi, Daddy," she said as she entered the area where her father kept a small collection of classic cars.

He had another modest collection in a garage off estate grounds, but held a handful of his personal favorites here.

He donned a royal blue Polo, tan chinos, loafers, with his golf jacket thrown into the mix. It was his usual going-for-a-spin attire. Today he was anchoring the cover over a '62 Selby Cobra, silver-gray with a rich red interior and two bucket seats. No doubt this was the one he had taken for a spin this weekend.

Muffy knew the story behind the car, having been told several times. Her granddaddy had purchased the Shelby in 1968 and cherished it until he gave it to her daddy as a wedding gift. It was to be passed on to Chip when he graduated college. Now it stayed in the garage, wrapped in a sheath, waiting for a moment that would never come, and her father took the car out for a drive once or twice a month.

"Gotta keep these babies moving," he always said, "or else they'll fall apart on you, just sitting around all the time."

"Gotta keep these babies moving, you know," he said today for the hundredth time.

"Yes, Daddy, I know."

"It's a funny thing—they look like a piece of fine art, cost about as much, too. But unlike a painting or a sculpture even, they're just not meant to sit around."

He patted the car's cloth-covered hood. There was something forlorn in the way he said it. She did not think that she was mistaken in noticing sadness in his eyes when he looked at the car.

Muffy did not dare ask what he planned to do with the car since tradition had not panned out. Her father had continued to pamper the Shelby even after what happened in Florida. Muffy had tried to explain this to Chip in one of their email exchanges. His written reply had been disheartening but not unexpected:

_Well, no duh! That damn thing has got to be worth a couple hundred grand. Easy. And it will probably appreciate in value. Did you think he would scrap it? He's a jackass, but he's not dumb._

She had not been able to argue with that logic, and she had felt foolish for even bringing it up. She had only been eleven; it had been hard to put into words to her brother how she knew things would be okay if he just reached out. Pointing out the little things she noticed, like her daddy and the Shelby, just looked like she was grasping at straws in Chip's eyes. Most of the time, Muffy had tried to keep things light between them because whenever she got serious about their father, Chip got nasty. And when Chip got nasty, Muffy would stay up half the night, crying.

"So tell me all about it," her father said brightly, his full attention on her now. "How was your first tutoring session?"

"It went great," she said casually. "Fantastic. Well, I'm going to go study."

She turned to leave.

"Hold on a sec."

_Crap._

"Yes?"

He regarded her with appraisal more so than concern.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm terrific. My mind is just, you know,  _blown_  from everything that went down today. Alan really did a number on me. I feel like he took me to task on every issue I have."

" _And_  you're going to study to top it all? Boy… That Alan must be something else."

He sounded so impressed.

"Oh, no argument there," Muffy said.

_Something else entirely._

"That's excellent. Really excellent."

"Can I go now, Daddy? I'm kind of tired. I need to get a little more studying in, and then I think I'll go to bed early."

He skeptically eyed his watch, as if he could not believe what she was asking.

"So early in the day, princess?"

"But I feel like I've run a marathon."

"Aren't you hungry? You could at least have a snack."

"Alan shared his nachos with me at the Sugar Bowl."

Muffy felt like a contestant who had entered the lightning round of a game show, the premise of which was based entirely around lying to parents.

"Well, I don't see why not," he said after a moment's thought. "Rest is good for the mind, after all. Hey, before you go, I just want to show you something."

He withdrew his phone from his front pocket and took a few moments to pull up whatever he wanted to show her.

"What do you say to  _this_?"

It was an advertisement for the Crown City Opera.

" _Il Trovatore_?" she said.

She looked at the feature he had scrolled to for the 2009-2010 season.

"January ninth! I got us a couple of tickets. Now, I know you're more of a Puccini girl, but I think this one will really turn you around on Verdi. This one's got the Anvil Chorus!"

"This is amazing, Daddy…but I don't get it. If I'm being punished, why are you giving me a present?"

"Well, it won't be for a while now—plenty of time for you to set things right. A new year, a new Muffy! Think of this as a testament of my faith in you. I know I've been tough on you lately, but it's been for your own good. Also, I know that you can do anything you put your mind to. You're a Crosswire. Just a little grit and determination, and you're gonna earn your stuff back in no time. And I know that when it's all over, you'll be even prouder of yourself than I will."

What could she say to that? There was no way to verbalize the hundreds of thoughts and fears swirling around in her mind right now.

"Thanks, Daddy."

"I love you so much, sweetums."

He kissed her atop her head.

"I don't wanna cut into anymore of your study time. Go get 'em!"

Muffy thought about the tickets as she ascended the staircase, unable to decide if her father's gift was odd. Normally she would have said no and that being punished was the oddity. Maybe he was predisposed to shower her with presents, simple as that. Was it possible that he felt sorry for her that her time with Chip had been inadvertently cut off and was trying to compensate? He had seemed genuinely sorry about that.

A darker and more worrisome thought occurred to her: what if this was what Chip was talking about? What if her father was showing her how good it could be if she fell in line?

She heard her brother's voice.

_He wants you to know you're under his thumb, and he's showing you just how hard he can press._

And if she did not fall in line, do exactly as the big guy wanted, what then?

That was another in a long list of things she did not want to think about, so she would not. She would do what she always did whenever things got too deep or too worrisome or too scary. She would turn to her distractions, the things that got her punished, the things that cost her a tutor today.

She plugged her earbuds into her iPod and opened her go-to playlist: "Opera Tenors".

That would not do today. It reminded her of the impending opera for which her father had just purchased tickets. She did not want to spend another minute questioning her father's motives.

_Okay, go-to playlist number two…_

"Best of BSB", something that had always helped drown out the thoughts throughout the years. No, that was no good, either. Backstreet had been playing when the whole horrible ordeal with Alan had begun.

None of her magazines could hold her interest, not even the ones displaying Jude Pendleton's handsome visage. She browsed the selection on her TiVo, settling on a backlog of unwatched  _One Tree Hill_ , which she had put on at a low volume even though she did not want to watch anything. Her problems were now distracting her from her distractions, and there was no end to her problems in sight.

At some point during the night, well after the thunderstorm had begun, Muffy had eventually fallen asleep. Before that, she had curled up on top of her bed, watching Chad Michael Murray deliver lines on the screen but not listening to a word he said. She wondered when she would again feel the pride in herself that her daddy had promised. Right now, she just felt like trash.

_To be continued…_


	12. Catherine Frensky and Mr. Crosswire

When Catherine had asked Chip to go home to the Crosswire estate for Thanksgiving, his initial response had been, " _Pfft_ … Screw that!"

"Chip…"

"Cat…"

"That's my condition. How badly do you want that date?"

"Why are you asking for this?"

"I don't want you to be alone on Thanksgiving."

"I don't have to be. I was kind of hoping that we'd…"

"I'll be with  _my_  family. You should be with yours. It's one dinner. You don't have to like it. You just have to go. Pics or it didn't happen."

She had eventually worn him down to, "I'm not in love with the idea, but I'll think about it."

They promised to get in touch later to figure out a moving strategy. It would take more than two days to get moved in, but she would take all the help she could get. Chip had offered to rent a U-Haul for her, which was tempting, but she had not committed to it. It seemed he had already spent a lot of money on the bouquet.

Chip had offered up a kind of apology before his departure.

"I didn't know the kids were going to be here. I honestly didn't mean to upset you, Cat. I actually thought you might find it thrilling. What's the point of a secret romance if you can't have some fun with it?"

She had understood where he was coming from. If this had been a normal testing-the-waters romance, she might have been willing to play along. But there was a lot at stake.

"Maybe I'm in the minority here," she said to him, "but I don't find secrecy fun."

Not anymore. She found it daunting. Chip was partially responsible for that.

The kids had been quiet on the ride home, keeping their heads together, whispering over the screen of Arthur's phone. When she asked them if they had fun at the ranch, they quickly assured her that they had and resumed their hushed conversation. From the snippets she could hear, Catherine gathered that some major upset had happened within their friend group, and everyone was chatting about it through texts and private messages. She remembered those days, back when little spats felt like the end of the world.

_Middle school problems…_  she had thought as she drove on.  _So trivial._

Catherine pulled into the resident lot outside her apartment building and parked in the west end. The apartment she shared with her friends was on the east end. She mentally prepared herself for going home and breaking the news to Angi and Tami that she would be moving out. She was going to miss them. There would be hugs and tears, Catherine was sure, as well as sweet red wine and brownies. Angi kept brownie mix on hand like most people kept salt. They would lounge around the living room, get tipsy and devolve into giggly high school girls again as they chatted and reminisced and stayed up far later than they should.

There was something she needed to do before all that. She turned her attention to the bouquet monopolizing the passenger seat and picked it up. She sniffed it, something she had not allowed herself to do at the ranch, not in front of everyone. It felt good to indulge herself now. To her, cut flowers had always smelled like the perfumes some elderly ladies wore or gentile funeral homes. It was not a pleasant smell, if she was being honest.

These flowers were different. Upon inhaling their fragrance, she was transported to a time after the New Year's kiss and before her relationship with Chip had truly begun. It was the day she had spent in Piedmont Park with Chip.

The warm southern breeze had carried a potpourri of freshly-mown grass and the sweetness of blooming flowers and blossoming trees. Every part of their surroundings felt new and alive. She had convinced him to go on a horse-drawn carriage ride, but only after they had both agreed that such a thing was corny but totally okay as long as they did it ironically. Chip was already uneasy from being so close to a horse, and the spring day had caused his allergies to go haywire, so he was somewhere between a state of pure misery and a Benadryl-induced stupor. His demeanor had been pleasant, however, cheerful even, and he had never complained or asked to go home. He stuck by her side the entire time, from picking her up at her hotel until offering to drop her off that night. She had told him that she would rather stay over with him, hoping he picked up on what she was implying. All simply because she had asked.

Maybe this was why flowers were such a popular dating staple. They helped people relive fond memories when they were in love.

Wait.

Was she in love?  _Was_  she?

Catherine plucked the card from within the bouquet and contemplated the sentiment written on it.

* * *

_2004_

It was Thursday afternoon, and Coldplay blasted in Catherine's earbuds while she cleaned her side of the bedroom. It looked as if exactly one half of the room had been hit by tornado while the other remained immaculate, spared by Devine intervention. She had not been responsible for making the mess on Francine's side, and there was no way she was going to be responsible for cleaning it up. Francine would just have to take care of it once she came home. She placed her hands on her hips and admired her work, deciding to reward her achievement with a soda, and not a diet one. She removed her earbuds on the way to the kitchen, draping the cord over the back of her neck so they could hang loosely, just in time to hear the knock at the front door. That would be Francine wanting back in. Catherine always double bolted the doors while home alone. She opened up, coming face to face not with her sister but with Ed Crosswire.

She went with a knee-jerk reaction, which happened to be shouting "OH, JEEZ!" and slamming the door in his face.

_You're going to blow it for sure. Chip warned you about this. You can't let him down, okay?_

"Sorry, Mr. Crosswire," she said upon opening the door a second time. She tried her best to look embarrassed. "I thought you might be one of my friends. It was kind of shocking, seeing an unexpected face."

"That's okay, Catherine. "May I come in?"

He had said it in a friendly manner, but there was a look on his face that was unfamiliar to her when associated with the smiling man she was used to seeing in the commercials and at public gatherings. Was it anger? Was he angry with her because he knew her secret?

"Sure," she said. "Um, but if you're looking for Muffy, she left with Francine about an hour ago."

He stepped in and took in the apartment surrounding him, his hands shoved firmly into the pockets of his luxurious overcoat. It seemed as if he were making sure they were alone.

"I was hoping to talk with you, actually."

"Oh."

Exactly what she had been afraid of.

"Really?"

"Any chance you've heard from Chip—talked with him over the phone…anything?"

"Ah, no. Not for a few weeks. I've kind of lost touch. You know, school and stuff."

Had he always been so toweringly tall? She felt like such a child, facing him in her VOTE FOR PEDRO ringer tee, her MP3 player in her back pocket. Her knees were shaky.

"Uh-huh. And the last time you spoke with him, he didn't mention any sort of…plans at all?"

She tried to look  _unwitting_  as she shook her head.

"Plans?"

"I just wondered if he might have…never mind. Here," he said, withdrawing a shiny business card holder and a Cross pen from his breast pocket.

He took out a single card and scrawled something on it before handing it to her with what looked like a hand he was fighting to keep steady.

"All my direct numbers. And this one—that's my personal cell if none of them redirect," he said tapping the number he had written. "If you do hear from him, even if it's just a text, will you please do me a favor and let me know? Feel free to call anytime, twenty-four seven."

"Is everything all right?"

She prayed the question sounded innocent.

"I honestly don't know, but I would appreciate it if you just kept that to yourself for now. I don't want to create more worry unless it's necessary."

Worry. That was the look he wore, not anger.

"Um, yeah. Yes. Sure. I hope everything turns out okay," she added.

She meant that. She could not help him, would not, but she hoped it all worked out and soon.

"Thank you, Catherine. So do I."

As soon as Mr. Crosswire was down the stairwell and out of sight, Catherine shut the door and leaned on it for support. She let out a breath she had been holding. Her legs felt like they were made of Jell-O.

She had just lied to one of the richest and most influential people in town. And she did not think that he suspected anything.

Catherine had to hand it to Chip. He had known his father would come here. Mr. Crosswire was smart enough not to leave a stone unturned. That was why Chip had not announced his plans to the rest of his friends.

But why tell her?

_He trusts me._

Anyone else could have turned him over in a heartbeat, but Catherine was loyal. Above his high school friends, his college friends, and his fraternity brothers, she was the one he had chosen. The girl with whom he had sneaked champagne and kisses on New Year's Eve.

No, Mr. Crosswire had not seemed suspicious. He had been too distressed for suspicion, acted too desperate.

_Can you blame him? He has no idea where his son is._

She was surprised Mr. Crosswire was keeping his composure as well as he was. Her parents would have been at their wits end had she been the one who left. Chip had been gone long enough to be a missing person's case for sure. What would the Crosswires do next? Would the police get involved? It was all out of her hands now. She had done her part.

Catherine turned Mr. Crosswire's card over and over in her hands, trying to stop thinking about what she had just done. In guaranteeing Chip's freedom, she had condemned his parents to a life of worry.

_I'm going to hate myself for this…_

* * *

_Present day_

She was sure she had done the right thing that day. But why had doing the right thing twisted such a knot in her stomach? Why, to this day, did she still feel that knot from time to time? She thought it might disappear completely once Chip made it back home. She was still waiting.

Looking at the florist card, Catherine realized that Chip had his father's handwriting. They shared the same loopy double Ls, with the first one slightly larger than the last. Their number fives were similar as well, if she recalled correctly. The top line did not quite connect to the rest of the number. She wondered if either of them knew this about the other.

_I'll wait as long as it takes._

She took her wallet from her purse and slipped the card behind her driver's license before gathering her things, the bouquet included, and exiting her car.

The sky had been overcast for most of the day, but dark thunderheads had been rolling in rather quickly over the past half hour or so. There was a breeze in the balmy air, thick with the promise of a stormy night.

At the very end of the west side of the lot stood a row of Dumpsters, obscured by wooden fencing, connected to a maintenance exit via a breezeway. Catherine sidled through the fence's gate and checked the first Dumpster she came to. Its sliding side door was wide open, and the receptacle was fairly empty from what she could see.

She regarded the loveliness of the bouquet and wondered how much input Chip had had in its assembly. Autumn was just around the bend, but the assortment could not have been more spring-like if the florist had tried. Surely that had to be a conscious effort. It was a bouquet any woman might be proud to display at home, somewhere prominent so that visitors or even roommates could admire them. But she couldn't bring these in and let Tami and Angi gawk at them.

Catherine smelled the flowers one last time before giving them a toss through the open door of the Dumpster. The bouquet disappeared, its lovely pastels swallowed up by the inky dark void. The time was just not right.

_So, when?_

She did not have an answer. She closed the wooden gate just as the first of the fat and warm raindrops began to fall and headed east toward home, trying not to feel guilty about any of the things she had ever done.

_To be continued…_


	13. Professional Adults

 

" _Psst!_ Hey, Buster!" Muffy whispered.

She peered around the corner of 300 hall, where her locker was located. Buster broke from his reverie. He had been standing in front of his open locker munching on some sort of snack cake, savoring it in a blissful, eyes-closed kind of way.

"Mmm?"

"Has Alan been to his locker yet?"

Buster should know. Alan's locker was just three down from Buster's.

"Haven't seen him," Buster said around a mouthful.

She was running later than usual due to her terrible night and the heavy rain this morning. She had been hoping that Buster would say that Mr. Tight Schedule had already come and gone. However, Buster usually ran late, so there was still a chance the he had missed Alan as well.

"Guess I'll have to be quick," Muffy muttered to herself.

She scurried to her locker and fumbled to open it. She began to offload some books in exchange for the one she needed for first period then thought better of it. As if she were in a race, she adjusted her school bag so that the compartment portion was on her chest like a Babybjörn and added various texts and school supplies. She did not look at Buster, but she knew he was watching her. She could sense it.

"Avoiding Alan, huh?"

_Here we go..._

She may be the gossip queen of Mill Creek Middle, but she did not relish being the center of talk. Not negative talk, anyway. She knew that today was going to be difficult. There had been so many witnesses in the library, there was bound to be some fallout. Francine had been waiting for her near the school entrance when she arrived.

"I wanted to check on you yesterday, but I didn't know if it was safe," she had said. "I didn't even know if it was true! What happened?"

Muffy had called Alan an expletive, a not-so-nice name for someone who was a world-class jerk. It was not a word she readily used, but in the moment, she had felt that Francine would appreciate it.

"And I don't want to talk about it!"

Francine had looked surprised, issuing a " _damn_ " in hushed astonishment followed by, "Okay, okay. Sorry…"

Now, Muffy harrumphed in response to Buster's question as she continued her mission.

"You must be pretty mad at him," he carried on, drawing another cake from the box. "Can you believe the nerve of him? I mean, shouting in a library like that…no respect at all."

His smile faded when he saw the murderous glare she was giving him.

"Sorry. Had to get one in. Really, are you okay?"

"Please," Muffy scoffed. "I'm a Crosswire. I'm going to be just fine."

She knew no such thing, but it was like an auto response programmed in her brain, perhaps because she had actually believed it for so long.

"You want a Jaffa Cake?" he said.

He held the sweet out to Muffy insistently and she dodged it.

"No, I don't want a Jaffa Cake, thanks."

"More for me," Buster mumbled.

He continued eating while she resumed rummaging.

"You know…it's weird. Arthur and I were talking about Alan the other day. He's changed."

This caught Muffy's attention and she stopped.

"He's a world-class jerk," she said in agreement.

"Not sure I'd go that far, but for a while there it was like he was Alan but different somehow. It was like he was there, but not _really_ there, if that makes sense. It doesn't make sense, does it? Anyway, then he started disappearing all together, making excuses for why he couldn't do this or couldn't do that."

"Have you _seen_ his schedule?"

"I know, but have you ever noticed how a lot of what he does just seems…"

"Excessive?" she said.

Muffy forgot her mission. She propped her hands on top of her school bag and listened as Buster carried on.

"Yeah. Unnecessary, like he's doing it just to stay busy. It seems like whenever he makes an excuse it's never anything official—you know, for school. It's always _independent research_."

"That's true," she said. "But that's who he is, right?"

"Maybe. But he's always _made_ time for us before. I can't explain it, but I get the feeling he doesn't even want to anymore. I guess he'd rather spend all his time at the library."

"Not according to Fern," Muffy said. "She basically said Alan uses the library as a cover story."

"Really?" Buster said. "That's interesting."

"What? Does it tickle your detective brain?"

Buster shook his head.

"Not that interesting. This is _Alan_ we're talking about. He's the most studious, responsible, got-it-together person we know. Whatever his latest obsession is, I'm sure it's _way_ over our heads. We'll find out what it is in twenty years when he wins a Noble for it."

"Isn't it pronounced No- _bell_?"

"I've heard it both ways," said Buster, not looking concerned. "Besides, I'm giving sleuthing a rest for a while. Got more important things to think about."

For a moment, Muffy thought that Buster might be saving face. She knew that Fern was his detecting partner, but she was still mad at Buster for reasons she refused to disclose. Seeing as it was Buster, it could have been for any number of reasons. Then she realized what the important things might actually be.

"Oh…right," she said. "How are your parents now that your dad is back? Are they getting along?"

"Uh…"

Buster looked uncomfortable.

"They haven't really interacted much. I guess that's kind of the same thing as getting along."

Muffy did not have the heart to tell him that it most definitely was not the same thing. She knew that all too well.

"I mean, both of them have been pretty busy," he offered the explanation as if he owed it to Muffy. "Mom's been working late a lot, and Dad's still getting settled. I'm sure they _will_ interact…eventually."

* * *

Bo Baxter exited the elevator on the top floor of the Elwood City Times, a visitor's badge dangling from the collar of his raincoat. The clerk at the front desk had performed quite the eyebrow raise when Bo had given him his name.

_Great, I'm semi-famous around here_ , he had thought as the clerk typed his name into the visitor log and then handed him a numbered badge. He wondered who talked about him. Certainly not Bitzi, not if she was as hesitant about opening up to other people as she was with opening up to him.

She had surprised him, though, on Saturday afternoon when she dropped Buster off. She had helped their son bring his things into the townhouse, and while Buster was setting up in his bedroom Bitzi had said to Bo, "Walk me out?"

He followed her to her car. They had only managed a few steps out the door when she spoke.

"Are you free for lunch sometime this week?" she said quietly.

Her tone had been mild-mannered. What a relief. Aside from a handful of perfunctory phone calls, all regarding Buster's pick up and drop off times, they had barely spoken since the week Buster had learned about Byron.

He was sure he had sounded flustered when he said, "Uh, yeah. Wide open for one more week. What's your schedule?"

"Hmm, Mondays are always hellish, but my whole week looks pretty wild. Why don't we shoot for Tuesday and hope for the best? Just meet me in the Times lobby around one and we'll hit the Ecuadorian place down the street. _Great_ coffee."

"Sounds good."

She waved him off with a "see you then" and opened the car door.

"Wait," he said. "Why?"

She shrugged.

"We just need to go over some things. That's all."

Office-type settings had never been Bo's element, but he had an office himself now, a small one at the flight school, so he figured he would adapt sooner or later.

He passed seemingly endless cubicles and the usual suspects in terms of office paraphernalia—computers, copiers, vending machines, a water cooler and coffee maker. Employees darted around; reporters, he guessed, though they could have been interns or assistants or held any number of positions, all performing their newsly duties. Even with all the work stories Bitzi used to tell him as they cozied up at night after dinner, he still had no idea how a lot of this worked.

Bo found where he needed to be, the office of the editor-in-chief, and headed that way. Before he reached the door, a rabbit man exited the office. The man caught sight of Bo and quickly observed his visitor's tag.

"Hi, there!" he said. "Can I help you?"

"I'm just here to meet Bitzi—uh, Mrs. Baxter—Miz—the editor…whatever you call her around here."

The man chuckled. "Mostly," he said, extending a hand, "we just call her 'Boss'. And you are...?"

"Bo," he said giving the man's hand a firm shake.

The man's face lit up with recognition. "Baxter? _Bitzi's_ Bo?"

Bo gave a soft 'ha' of laughter.

_Yeah. Definitely semi-famous._

"Well, not anymore," he said. "Pleased to meet you, uh…?"

"Harry Mills," said the man, and it was Bo's turn at realization. "Sports? Bitzi's Harry?"

"Ah, that's ancient history," Harry said, though he did not sound sad about it.

He held up his left hand to reveal a shining gold wedding band.

"And it's sports _editor_ these days."

"Oh, well, congratulations, man. You know, on both things."

"Thanks."

The two men stood awkwardly for a moment longer. Bo wondered if Harry were thinking the same thing as he, Bo, was thinking about Harry. Were they sizing each other up? Was each man wondering what the other's relationship with Bitzi had been like? Not that any of that mattered anymore. He just could not help thinking about it.

Harry was the first to speak.

"I'd better jet. Working lunch. Lots of upcoming assignments. But it was good to put a name with a face."

"Same here."

Harry was off, dashing through the maze of cubicles, perhaps at a faster pace than was the norm for him. Bo could not be sure.

He knocked on the office door, and from the other side he got a muffled, "It's open!" Upon entering, he saw his ex flitting around her office.

"Afternoon, _jefe_ ," he said, leaning in.

She stopped briefly to acknowledge him with an "oh, hi" while she took a stack of papers from a printer and darted to her computer to furiously type something out.

"Sorry I'm behind," she said, never looking away from the screen. "My meeting with Harry ran longer than expected, and I had to answer about twenty voicemails this morning. Now I just have to send another email to remind the new intern to stop by my outbox. He keeps sending documents to the wrong printer— _mine_."

"No worries, I'm early. I came up because I just had to see this for myself," he said looking around the office. "Righteous… So this is where the magic happens, huh?"

"Yeah, this is all mine," she said nonchalantly as she, he presumed, clicked SEND on her email. "Can you believe it?"

"I can, actually. You've always worked hard. It was only a matter of time before you ended up running the joint."

"I'm not so sure it was my hard work that got me where I am," she said with a smirk as she sidled past him and slipped the paper stack into the outbox just outside her office door. "More like my will to stay out of trouble."

"Regrets?"

"None at all. Bossing people around is kind of fun. Plus, it's kept me alive. Can't complain."

This was more like the Bitzi he knew: plod through, deflect with humor. She would always get as close as she could to talking about it without actually talking about it. Over the years he learned to stop feeling encouraged whenever she skirted the encounter with Elliot. It could be thoroughly frustrating.

"By the way, ran into Harry outside," he said, watching her don her trench coat. "The famous Harry Mills…"

He let it hang in the air on purpose.

"It's been a crazy week, and it's only Tuesday," she said, breezing effortlessly past the subject. "I don't know about you, but I'm _jonesing_ for some coffee."

She shouldered her oversized tote from the coat rack and grabbed her umbrella.

"Shall we?"

* * *

"I must admit I had a dual purpose for inviting you out today."

Bitzi was stirring the café's homemade coffee concentrate into her cup of hot milk as they waited for their food to be served.

He had taken a sip of his. She had not been lying. This coffee was like nectar of the gods, delicious and a warm recovery from the rainy, chilly day. The café was a block away from the Times, and Bitzi had shared her umbrella, a giant jade green and black one with a long crook for a handle, as they walked. It had not completely protected them, however; the winds had blown the rain sideways.

"Which is?" he said.

"First things first…"

She took from her tote a gift wrapped package and handed it to him from across the table. "I hope you like it."

Not frilly or fancy, the wrapping consisted of alternating blue, white, and red stripes, with a black satin ribbon tied in a bow around the middle. The package, having barely fit in Bitzi's tote, was slim and square-shaped. Bemused, he went ahead and asked.

"What's this?"

"A peace offering…and a housewarming gift. Go on."

She leaned forward in her seat, looking eager.

The gift felt like two separate items roughly the same size, with one being significantly thicker than the other. He was not sure what the thicker one was, but he knew the feel of the thin one like the back of his hand. Wondering which album she had bought him, Bo carefully peeled the paper away. The Bitzi he knew would have never put Scotch Tape on an album cover, but he would err on the side of caution. There was a lump in his throat once the cover was finally revealed.

"No way," he breathed. " _Quadrophenia_ …"

It was the album, half of which Buster had destroyed when he was a toddler. Bo still kept sides one and two in its slip cover, though he never listened to it because the album was incomplete. It was the only exception to his perfect collection rule. Even after all this time, Bitzi still knew him.

"I know," she said. "There's some slight fraying on the corners of the opening, but the rest of the cover is perfect, and the records are in phenomenal shape… Bo? Are you all right?"

"Just feeling a little _verklepmt_ is all. How did you know I hadn't replaced it?"

"I know you're a completionist, and you're super particular about your albums…but, like me, you're sentimental. I just didn't think you'd be able to part with it, not with the way you used to talk about what Buster did to it. I also didn't think you'd spoil your collection with two of the same, so I thought I'd present a solution. You can have a perfect—or near perfect—copy, and you can use the frame to hang your old one in your house or even your office as a memento. Just a suggestion, of course."

That was what the thicker half of the gift was, an album frame. It actually seemed like a good idea.

"I wasn't expecting this at all. Thank you, Bitz."

"You're welcome."

Their food arrived. They spent the next couple of minutes savoring their steaming bowls of chicken stew.

"I just have one burning question," Bo said after a few bites.

" _Just_ one?"

"One that's been on my mind for the past twenty minutes. You and Harry… How does that work?"

"How does what work?"

"You know. You dated him. Twice."

"You're wondering how he and I can work in close proximity to each other?"

"Well, yes. Must be pretty awkward."

"No more awkward than you asking about it. I guess it _was_ awkward at first, both times we broke up. But we're not in high school. We knew what we were getting into when we started our relationship, and we knew what a breakup would mean. We have jobs to do, so we behave like professional adults and do them. Besides, it's all water under the bridge anyway. Paige is a good match for him. I'm happy that he's happy. Goodness knows he deserves it."

"Mmm-hmmm. Do you think that's what we are, professional adults?"

"I certainly hope that we can be. Which brings me—"

"—to the second part of that whole dual purpose thing you were talking about."

"Yeah…I'm glad that you're handling the move well. It's a drastic life change."

A weird opener. Bo was not a stranger to drastic life changes. He had been divorced, after all, and he had handled that.

"I didn't mean to sound accusatory that night. Over the phone, I mean. And as for the day you picked up Buster after school—I get it. I don't have to agree with it, but I understand your intentions."

"I appreciate that," he said, watching her pull a pen, a notepad, and a thin manila file from the tote. "It was a rough week for everyone. Really, I meant no harm. And now that I'm here, I want you to know that, whatever you need or whatever I can do, I'm here to help."

"And I appreciate _that_. What I really need at the moment are suggestions."

She clicked her pen.

"Visitation…how do you want to work it?"

"Oh, I haven't really thought about that. Whatever you think is fine with me."

"I think you should have some say."

_Since when?_ he thought and then instantly shamed himself for doing so.

"Well…" he offered, "of course, I don't know the finer details of Buster's schedule, school and whatnot, but I don't see why there should be anything strictly set. As long as I don't interfere with anything important, I'm open to anything and everything he wants. He's fourteen. I think he should have some input as well."

"You want to keep it flexible?"

"The only thing holding me back is my work schedule. Once I pin down exactly what that is, I'm all set."

"We still need to iron some things out. Noted."

She was actually taking down notes.

"Work and…personal…time," she murmured as she wrote.

"Personal time?" he said.

"Dating. Not to put too fine a point on it."

"Oh... _that_. There are two things I'm focused on, Bitz: Buster and this job."

"Presently," she said. "But sooner or later…"

"Yeah. Sure. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. I'm still trying to remember where all the supermarkets are."

"In the meantime you can familiarize yourself with this."

She handed the file to him.

"I'll work on getting you added to the MCM email list for parents," she said as he skimmed the file's contents.

At the forefront was the latest PTA newsletter, followed by Mill Creek Middle's calendar of events. The pages went on, a bit of bedtime reading for tonight.

"Wow. Anything else?"

"He plays tuba in the school jazz band, he plays mascot for all basketball games, and he volunteers in the community garden."

"Mascot, huh?"

"And parents' night is coming up. We have one each semester."

"I see that. Never been to one. Sounds interesting."

"Your mileage may vary. Also," she said, "I'm making dinner Saturday evening. Buster would love it—we both would—if you would join us. Seven-thirty. Be there or be square."

"Don't wanna be a square…" he said. "I'd love to come, Bitz."

He held up his coffee cup, gesturing for a toast.

"To being professional adults?" he said.

She clinked her cup with his.

"I'll drink to that."

_To be continued…_


	14. Melancholy and the Infinite Mad-ness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a therapy session, though no trauma is discussed in graphic detail.

 

There had been no reason for Muffy to worry about running into Alan, for Alan had been absent from school all of Monday and Tuesday. Monday morning mostly saw him lying in bed, resting from a tiring night of seeking medical attention for his infected hand. He had also spent some time trying to prepare himself for what would take place the next day, when he would show up for his appointment at Elwood City Mental Health Center for Children and Adolescents. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, it was something that had to be done, even if he did not look forward to it.

He sat on the sofa inside the office of Dr. Hartmann-Krause, better known to him as Dr. Paula, who sat directly across from him in her chair. The woman never seemed to age. Her hair was a fraction shorter and maybe a shade lighter, but that was it. She remained frozen in time since the day he first met her at the age of nine. Meanwhile, Alan felt about a hundred years old.

He had a love-hate relationship with Dr. Paula. Love, because she was very skilled at her job, and it was almost frighteningly easy to talk to her. Hate, because he needed her. Alan disliked feeling dependent, which is why he had left therapy as soon as possible. He had walked away a couple of years ago after seeking her help a second time. He had felt like he was on the mend, and he stopped treatment, thinking, _I can take it from here, no problem._ He was smart enough to handle it. He knew himself better than anyone, and he knew what made him happy. And if he could not handle it, then he would go back. He just wanted to try it his way first because he was sure that it would work.

Alan had made a go of it for a while, sinking into the solace of his shop, until everything began piling on top of him, drowning him. Worse, the things that had begun piling up were not even tangible or practical obstacles. They were just emotions. Emotion had always been his archenemy, but now he was losing the battle, big time. Was it because he had not allowed himself time to heal properly? Was it because the anniversary was approaching? He was not sure.

Sessions always began casually. Dr. Paula would ease Alan into opening up about what was on his mind with a grace he had not seen in anyone before. And behind that grace was a professional mindset tasked with helping put back together what felt like a dozen puzzles, the pieces of which had been shaken together before being poured out onto a table for them to solve. Dr. Paula had a degree in her field. She could not judge him for his shortcomings, and he appreciated that.

Sometimes it would take a while for Alan to work up to what was on his mind. Today, however, Alan had begun bawling mere moments after having a seat, and all Dr. Paula had done was ask him how he was feeling. Everything came out in a rush, words and tears, as he jumped straight into what happened at the library on Sunday. Dr. Paula took notes as he babbled on. Even in his distress, Alan wondered how she was keeping up since he was having a hard time following himself. He knew he was repeating himself, jumping back and forth in time, and going off on tangents. He was an incoherent mess, but he could not control it. He went on for several minutes until he finally stopped for air.

"I'm sorry," he said of speaking too quickly and erratically. "I—I know I'm not supposed to apologize, but I am. I'm sorry for a lot of things."

"You're doing fine, Alan. Go at the pace you're comfortable with. Just remember to breathe."

Tired of plucking a tissue every couple of minutes, Alan grabbed the entire box from the coffee table. He held it steady in his lap using his left hand, which was now wrapped in far more gauze than he would have considered using. He gulped down several breaths.

"I don't know why I was so horrible to Muffy. I didn't even mean the things I said. Worst of all was seeing her cry. If you knew her you would understand. I don't think she possesses one iota of passivity. If you make her mad, she'll retaliate without a moment's hesitation. But Sunday…I could tell that I really hurt her. Why did I do that? It's like someone else was driving, and I was just a passenger. I was just trying to land punches regardless of where they connected in order to feel relief. That's messed up. I knew it was messed up, but I did it anyway. I'm so angry all the time, and I feel like I can't do anything about it."

He held up his injured hand.

"I spent eight hours in the emergency room Sunday night because I put my fist through a clock radio earlier in the day. I watched a nurse practitioner pick minuscule pieces of debris out of my wound using tweezers and a magnifying glass. This isn't me! At least, it didn't used to be. I'm scared, Doctor. And sad, and mad, and so many other things, and it feels like too much."

His voice cracked. He used another tissue to wipe his eyes and then his nose.

"What, to you, is the source of your anger?" said Dr. Paula. "Have you been able to pinpoint it?"

Alan shook his head. He stared down at his high-tops and fidgeted with the balled-up tissue in his good hand. He could not tell if she knew he was lying. This was what he was here for, to sort through his issues, but he did not think he could get into that today, not on top of everything else. If she had reviewed his file, and Alan was sure that she had, chances were good that Dr. Paula already knew what the source was or at least had suspicions, but her job was to get him to admit it, to confront it. Well, _it_ would have to wait.

"I thought I was more rational and intelligent than this. I can't wait until my prefrontal cortex fully develops, then maybe I won't do such stupid things."

"You're a brilliant young man," Dr. Paula said gently, "but intelligence has nothing to do with it, and neither does maturity. No matter how old, or wise, or smart, or successful we become, we're not impervious to pain or hardship. That's why it's important to learn to handle our feelings in responsible, healthy ways. Sometimes we need a little guidance in doing that. There's no shame in it."

Alan begged to differ on that last part, but he nodded.

"There is quite a lot to unpack here," Dr. Paula said, tapping her open padfolio with her pen. There seems to be a lot on your mind and it's all trying to come out at once, but that's okay. We can't get to it all in one session, but we _will_ get to it, step by step. Between sessions, I want you to remember the tools you can use to help yourself. I would like to suggest that you try keeping a journal this time. Structure it however you like, as simple or as complex as you want it to be. If you have a thought or a feeling, a fear or even something you think you might forget to bring up by the time our next session rolls around, be sure to write it down."

"Okay," said Alan. "I think I can do that."

It sounded a lot like a prewriting strategy, getting all the ideas down so that nothing was overlooked, so that everything could be examined more closely down the line. It might actually help him when he felt overwhelmed. He would be able to slow down and organize his thoughts for future sessions. Alan quickly imagined some of the things he might include only to get a jolt of fear when he realized that they would make him sound like a madman for certain.

_Dear Diary, two days ago, I heard her voice in my head. She threw me a life preserver and kept me from chopping through a door with my dad's hatchet._

Maybe if he just worded it differently…

"You can start tonight, if you like. We can review tomorrow. Also, remember your breathing exercises. Find time to do something that relaxes you…"

Alan thought he had found that in the shop, but now he was not sure. He would have to remember to add that to the journal.

"And rest," she said. "Sleep is very important for your health."

"I know," he said softly. "I've been eminently negligent, Doctor. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner, but…"

"You're here now. That's what's important. With every session, we are going to focus on your wellbeing. I'm confident that we can get you feeling better soon. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Alan said, nodding again.

"Good. Now, while you were catching me up, I noticed that you seemed to revisit the same subject quite frequently: your friend Muffy."

"I wish I could take back my words," he agreed. "I hate what I did."

"What would you like to do about your current situation?"

Alan blew out a heavy breath.

"Disappearing sounds like an appealing proposition. I could move someplace far away, like Texas. I could start a new life and begin a different career path. I could become a...a far-leaning, extremist political commentator. Yeah, that's it. I'll fashion a new identity as an odious jerkwad. I could pretend to deny science and facts, maybe host a radio show or debate unprepared students on college campuses. It's so uncharacteristic; no one would ever realize that it was me."

Dr. Paula's face was impassive.

"What would you really like to do?" she said.

"I want to apologize to Muffy, to make her understand how sorry I am."

Dr. Paula gave him an encouraging smile.

"I like that idea much better," she said. "Let's start with that."

_To be continued…_

 


	15. To Fern, From Buster

 

 

 

 

"Hey, Alan," said Buster as he walked up to his locker before first period on Wednesday morning. The bandage encasing his friend's hand caused him to do a double take. "What the heck did you do to your hand?"

Having just opened his locker, Alan turned to greet him.

"Hi. Oh, you know, shop stuff. Unexpected sharp edges. I got a serious infection. That's why I've been out this week. I should be more careful."

"Jeez. Was it Dad's turntable?"

"Oh, no. No. The Thorens is coming along fine. I just got careless with a clock radio," he said with an expression that conveyed a _silly me_ sentiment.

"My mom says people become more accident prone when they're tired," said Buster. "Maybe you should take it easy every once in a while."

"You're probably right. I think I've learned my lesson."

Buster watched as Alan took his time removing his warmup. He put maybe a bit more effort than was necessary into smoothing it out before hanging it up. He even prolonged the unzipping of his school bag before switching out items. He was being so obvious.

"If you're hanging around because you think you'll get to talk to Muffy, I'd give it up," said Buster. "She's not coming."

"How do you know? Not that _that's_ what I'm doing."

"I haven't crossed paths with her here once since Monday morning. Probably has something to do with her emptying her entire locker into her backpack. No need to come back to it. Because she's avoiding you."

"Yeah, Buster, I inferred that. Thanks."

"Maybe you'll see her in class."

"I don't have any classes with Muffy."

"At lunch?"

"I won't be at lunch. I have to get—I have to go back to the doctors."

"After school?"

"That's no good either. She's grounded, and I… I have plans."

"More independent research?"

"Something like that."

"Well, there's always tomorrow, but if you want some advice, I'd say the more time you give her, the better. She's still pissed, and she looks about as worn out as you do."

Alan's mouth fell open at this. He looked worried.

"But hey, look on the bright side: at least you _know_ what you did wrong."

Buster tried to cheer Alan up by making an exaggerated gesture of patting his shoulder.

"Some of us aren't that lucky."

"I take it Fern is still mad at you?" said Alan.

"Oh, yeah, but not for much longer."

Buster drew an envelope from his bag and thumped it with his free hand.

"What's that?"

He could not contain his wide grin.

"Only the best thing I've ever done."

"Care to elaborate?"

"All will be revealed this afternoon."

Buster was grateful for the break in the rain. More was on the way later in the week, but that did not matter. At lunch today, he would invite the whole gang to the Sugar Bowl to witness Fern's astonishment. He knew that fewer people would be inclined to show up in bad weather.

"I know you've got plans and all," he said while miming the acts of pushing glasses up his nose and typing on a keyboard, "so be sure to ask Fern about it when you see her tomorrow. She might even tell you first. Believe me, she won't be able to contain herself when she sees what's in this envelope."

"Intriguing," said Alan, closing his locker and strolling away. "I'll stay tuned."

* * *

It was minutes before final bell, and Buster sneaked a peek around the corner. He would be glad when he no longer had to resort to spying on Fern. He watched her close her locker door and give the combination a spin before walking to her class, a glum-looking Muffy by her side. He waited a few seconds longer for them to travel to the end of the hall and out of sight before making his move.

He stepped out and merged into the hallway traffic, trying to look casual. In one hand he held the envelope, simply labeled TO: FERN FROM: BUSTER in Buster's best cursive, as he swung his arms naturally. He gave a quick glance behind. There were not many people left, and none of them were paying attention to him. Perfect. He got as close as he could to the row of lockers and stopped in front of Fern's, pretending to tie his sneaker. In a couple of seconds, everyone had passed him, leaving him behind. In a movement that could not have been more fluid if he had practiced, Buster stood up and slipped the envelope through the locker's bottom vent, smiling with satisfaction, almost giddy with anticipation.

The bell rang. He would be late to class, but he would take the tardy and offer his sincerest apologies to Mr. Porter. This afternoon would more than make up for it.

* * *

**Love ya, sweetums! Can't wait to hear how tutoring went tonight at dinner!**

Muffy whimpered at her father's text message. Final bell had just rung, and she was leaving for the limo. It said something of her state of mind that she actually had the Drug Phone out in the hallway where it anyone could see it. She had not had the courage to talk to her father, nor had she been able to collect herself long enough to search for a new tutor. Getting through school was draining enough, so she kept up the lie that she was still meeting with Alan, digging the hole she was in deeper and deeper.

As she exited the school, the wheels were already turning, though at a trudging speed due to her fatigue. She fought to conjure up a convincing recount for her father. She froze when she saw him, for the first time in two days. Alan was waiting for her on the sidewalk. She had heard that he had showed up for school today only to leave early for the doctors. He must have come back here; his bicycle stood parked just off the sidewalk in the grass. He stood right in front of her limo door. Bailey was at the wheel, the driver's side window down. Had the two of them been talking before she got here?

"I was wondering when I'd have the misfortune of running into you," she said to Alan.

"May I speak with you privately?" he said.

"No. In fact, I never want to speak to you again, period."

"Please?"

"Get out of my way, Alan."

"There's a lot that I need to say to you, if you'll let me."

"What—did you think of some more insults? Not here for that. _Move._ "

Alan stayed where he was.

"I wouldn't be stubborn if I were you. Bailey is trained in over a dozen forms of unarmed combat."

Briefly, Bailey's eyes flashed wide.

"That is a gross exaggeration," he said.

Muffy tried to recover and remain threatening.

"Well, he knows self defense, at least."

"I am afraid that I must refuse to assault a minor, Miss Muffy."

Muffy turned to her butler.

"You're not helping," she said.

The window rolled up, and the nonplussed Bailey disappeared behind the tinted glass.

If Alan was unwilling to move, then she would walk around to the other side. She did just that, and Alan followed her.

Muffy, I know I upset you," he said sounding desperate, "and I know that you're in a bad situation because of me."

"You think this is just about _you_? You have no idea what I'm going through. My situation was bad before you even entered the picture. You just made it worse. I should be figuring out how I'm going to make things better instead of wasting time on you."

That shut him up. Muffy reached for the limo door, thought for a second, and then turned back to him.

"I changed my mind. I _do_ have something to say. You know everyone talks about you, right? They wonder what's happened to you, why you're different. They wonder where you really spend all your time. Your student planner is full of crap, and we both know it. Now, maybe my life _is_ filled with useless garbage, but at least it's filled with something. I make time for my friends, so at least I know I won't end up a miserable, angry loner. But you will."

Alan's brow creased and he swallowed hard. It did not matter if he started yelling at her again. She would just hop in and ride away from him, like she had before. She had at least said her piece this time around.

_So why don't I feel better?_

Maybe it had something to do with the pitiful look he was giving her.

"Fine," he said in a small, quiet voice that complimented the look. "It's—it's fine. I'm going to be late for…work."

Alan stalked over to his bike, put up the kickstand, and walked with it in the direction of downtown. Muffy, on the other hand, ran back into the school.

* * *

The envelope fell to the floor when Fern opened her locker, the side with Buster's writing on it facing up. When she saw who it was from, she groaned. She knelt to pick it up and searched for the nearest trash can, finding one about fifty feet away next to a water cooler. Buster should have just left the letter in the garbage and saved her the trouble. Something occurred to her before she started walking.

_What if he finally figured it out?_

Wouldn't that be something, a handwritten letter telling her that he was sorry and that, after giving it some thought, he realized that he felt the same way? She opened the envelope with care. There were two pages. The first page was not handwritten. It was a printout of an email, and it was addressed to her.

A name jumped out at her immediately.

_Ernesto Del Rey?_

Why would she be getting a letter from him?

"…am pleased to inform you…" Fern began reading aloud. "…partial request…the first fifty pages of YOUR MANUSCRIPT?"

The few students still left in the hall stopped to stare at her. Her head was spinning.

" _The Secret Keeper_ …" she uttered, barely breathing. "This _can't_ be real."

She felt as if her knees would buckle. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She read the email, brief as it was, over and over again, sure she could not possibly be seeing what was in front of her. The pieces started coming together, and soon she was sure of two possibilities. Either this was a twisted prank, or Buster had performed a miracle.

There was another page, this one written by Buster:

_Congratulations, Fern! I knew you could do it!_

_Love,_

_Buster_

_P.S. I'll be at the Sugar Bowl his afternoon if you'd like to thank me in person._

That was good. Buster had made it simple to track him down. As for thanking him, that was not what was going to happen.

A distressed voice split the air.

"Fern!"

She whirled around to see Muffy hurrying toward her, her eyes shining with tears.

"Help me! I ran into Alan outside. I need to rant, but I can't find Francine!"

Fern slammed her locker shut and spun the combination with all the force she could muster in her fingers.

"I'm sorry you're upset, Muffy, but I can't stay. I need to get to the Sugar Bowl as quickly as possible."

Muffy sniffled.

"Why?"

"I have to murder Buster."

Fern continued past Muffy and toward the exit, hearing her friend issue a weary, "Oh, okay," followed by a soberer, "Wait— _what_?"

_To be continued…_

 


	16. Icebreaker

 

"Okay, Buster, we're all dying to hear the big news," Sue Ellen said before taking a sip of hot cocoa.

She sat next to Francine in the booth they were sharing with him and Arthur. Buster had gathered a small group at the Sugar Bowl after school on Wednesday, promising them an afternoon they would not soon forget. He had even told Francine to ready her camera phone in case she wanted to blog about it on _The Frensky Star_.

"Yeah, this had better be good," Binky called from the counter where he was placing an order. "It's family watch week at the dance academy, and I'm missing Mei Lin's ballet class for your mind-blowing announcement."

"And my battery is low," Francine said, examining her phone. "I hope it doesn't die before the excitement happens."

"The excitement is coming, don't you guys worry. Any minute now…"

Buster was trying to stall. Fern could not be too far behind them. He began to wonder if she had missed the envelope somehow or if he had perhaps stuck it in the wrong locker when there she was. Through the window, he saw her march up to the entrance. She gave the door a mighty fling and stepped inside.

_Here it comes, praise and adoration._

Fern searched the crowd, a wide look in her eyes, until she found Buster and pointed at him.

"You!" she said. "Tell me you didn't!"

"I _did_!" he said. "Amazing, right?"

"You're dead!"

_Dead?_

Wait. No, this wasn't right. Fern looked angry. Why did she look angry?

Buster had barely registered that she was charging at him, looking for all the world as if she were prepared to lunge over the table so she could strangle him. Fortunately, Binky stopped her in time, grabbing her by the shoulder. Fern shrugged him off, but Binky recovered by taking hold of her by the scruff of the neck.

"Whoa, what are you doing, Fern?" Binky said, looking appalled that he held a fistful of a tiny girl's jacket.

"Him!"

Fern nodded in Buster's direction. "He has to pay!"

Arthur turned to Buster.

"What did you _do_?"

"I got her an audience with a literary agent."

"And that's a _bad_ thing?" said Francine.

Buster glanced around the table. The only one of his friends who did not regard the situation incredulously was Sue Ellen, who instead gave Fern a sympathetic look.

"Not just any agent," said Fern. "He got a response from Ernesto Del Rey."

"What's so special about him anyway?" said Buster.

"He's _Stephanie Bachman's_ agent," Fern said as if that explained everything.

"And what's so special about _her_?"

"Really? You've never heard of Stephanie Bachman? She's only the most influential and prolific horror writer of the past three decades. She's like a modern-day Poe or Lovecraft, an icon."

"Cool. So it's a big deal that I got Del Rey's attention?"

"How? How did you do it?"

"I asked for help at the bookstore. One of the employees showed me _Writer's Market_ and gave me tips on how to query an agent. I picked Del Rey because he seemed like a good fit for you."

"And you got an answer, just like that?"

Buster nodded.

"I told him how awesome you are. Or _you_ told him how awesome you are. I couldn't send the email from Buster Baxter's address, so I created an account in your name."

"My god, this keeps getting worse," she said hollowly. "How did my life come to this?"

"Fern, listen…"

"No. Stop! You, having _no_ experience in this industry, queried one of its most prominent agents, and you got a response. Do you know how often that happens?"

"Um, no."

"It never happens! How did _you_ manage it?"

"I dunno, dumb luck?"

"With 'dumb' being the operative word. You have to write him back, Buster. Tell him who you are and what you did. Tell him that you were messing around. Apologize profusely and maybe this won't ruin my chances of a career later down the line."

"There's just one problem. I kind of…already…sent the manuscript."

"WHAT?"

Fern scrambled for the table again. This time Binky went after her and pinned her arms to her sides in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. He looked like a father wrestling with a squirming toddler. Out of the corner of his eye, Buster saw Francine surreptitiously lift her phone to take a picture, only to be thwarted by Arthur, who pushed it back down with his hand, shaking his head at her. Fern thrashed and kicked in Binky's arms and, despite their size difference, he actually looked like he was having difficulty handling her.

"You had no right!" she yelled at Buster. "Put me down!"

"Not until you stop acting like a lunatic," Binky said to her, and then he asked everyone else, "Is it weird that I kind of wanna let her go just to see what she'll do?"

"Yes!" said Sue Ellen, hopping out of her seat. "Don't you dare let her go, Binky. Fern, this isn't going to resolve anything."

Someone from behind the counter finally took notice of the commotion and spoke up. Buster heard the man's voice, but was too embarrassed to make eye contact.

"Hey! If you guys are going to roughhouse, you'd better take it outside!"

"Sorry!" Sue Ellen called to him. "Don't get us kicked out of here," she pleaded with her friend. "You two can talk this out. Please, be rational."

After a moment's consideration, Fern seemed to deflate in Binky's arms.

"You can let me go, Binky. It's okay. I promise I'll be calm."

Binky lowered Fern until her feet were firmly on the floor and let go of her.

"You," she said, pointing at Buster again. "Outside. _Now_."

Slowly, Buster stood. As he sidled out of the booth, Fern made her way back to the door and held it open for him. He turned to his friends. They all looked like he felt, like he was heading to his own funeral.

"If I don't survive," he said to Arthur, "you can have all my stuff. Tell Mom I said it was okay."

Binky gave him a somber salute.

"Good luck, man," he said.

Fern had apparently lied when she promised to be calm. When Buster made it to the door, she reached up, grabbed one of his ears and pulled him out the door.

"Ow! Ow! OW!" Buster squealed as Fern steered him into the alley running alongside the Sugar Bowl. "That's my ear, woman!"

Fern let him go.

"Start talking!"

"At least you're speaking to me again," he began.

"Shut up!"

She rubbed her temples while Buster massaged his now tender, burning ear.

"This isn't real. It can't be. You're playing an elaborate joke on me, payback for the silent treatment. That's all. That's _all_. Tell me that's what this is."

"Is it that hard to believe you're a good writer?"

"Why would you do this to me?"

" _For_ you. Don't you see that?"

"You pretended to be me. You created an email account in my name. That can't be legal."

"Well… Hey, let's not throw stones. You broke into a house once, remember?"

"Because I was trying to help you."

" _Same here!_ I don't get why you're so mad. I got you what you want."

"Oh my god, you have no _idea_ what I want, Buster!" she said, flailing her arms. "That's your problem!"

Buster did not know how to reply, and he figured whatever he said would just cause her to yell some more anyway. He was not entirely sure she was just talking about querying the agent at this point, either. He watched her as she circled him, fuming.

"Have you ever heard of Michael Ferretti?" she said after a long while.

Buster was not sure he could place the name with a face.

"Isn't he one of the Iron Chefs?"

Fern sighed.

"He's the author of the _Eldenthorne_ cycle. He was my age when he got published, and his first novel was huge. It debuted at number five on the _New York Times_ Best Sellers list and was in the top spot by its second week. All before his freshman year of high school."

"See? It _can_ be done. What are you so worried about?"

"Ferretti's youth was used as a gimmick. When he came onto the scene, he was touted as a wunderkind with unprecedented talent for a writer his age, the next big name in fantasy. At least, by _some_ , he was. Others maintained that, while his work was pretty good for a fourteen-year-old, it wasn't that great when stacked against the pioneers of the genre. They weren't wrong. Knowing that he was a kid when he wrote it, his stuff is pretty impressive, but it's heavily flawed—derivative, immature, and downright cringeworthy in places.

"Almost overnight, Ferretti gathered a large fan base thanks to _Eldenthorne_. He was a money-making juggernaut for his publisher, and so naturally, his team protected him from all criticism. He fulfilled his contract, completed his series, and kept his die-hards happy, but his books steadily declined in quality because his fame happened too soon and no one stepped in. Without critique, he never improved. He's in his thirties now, and he still writes the same way he did when he was fourteen. People aren't impressed anymore; they wonder when he's going to hang it up. Aside from loyal fans, no one respects him."

"You're afraid that might happen to you if you're published now?"

"In your query to Del Rey, did you happen to mention my age?"

"Um, yeah."

"Oh, great. That explains everything."

"How was I _not_ supposed to mention that? You're amazing for your age, Fern."

"'Amazing for my age' isn't good enough. I don't want to be known as the 'littlest writrix'. I want to be known as good, full stop. I want to be—"

"Respected," said Buster. "I know. That Lucas guy hates _The Secret Keeper_ , and that means the end of the world to you for some reason."

Fern was still frozen in the middle of her last sentence. She gave him a quizzical look.

"How…?"

"While you were talking about him with Sue Ellen that day in the library, I was eavesdropping. Look, I don't care who he is or who he _thinks_ he is. He's an idiot, and you shouldn't listen to him. I thought your book was great. I didn't want to put it away. The only thing that held me back was helping Dad."

"You really read it?"

"All three hundred and fifty-three pages. And I loved it. I just couldn't tell you because you were mad at me."

"Still am," she mumbled even though she looked flattered.

"When I heard you say that you were thinking about giving up on writing, I couldn't believe it. I don't know what I'll be doing ten years from now or even ten months from now, but I know you're meant to write forever. I didn't want you to stop because of one jerk."

"I…didn't plan on stopping," she said pensively. "Not really. It's just that it's hard to bear your soul and watch someone tromp all over it, even if it is just a fraction of it. It can take you to dark places."

Again, was she only talking about her book?

"I thought that, if I could get a publisher to notice you, then you wouldn't quit," Buster said. "You'd have your confidence back, and as an added bonus, maybe you'd stop hating me."

"I don't…hate you. It's—it's complicated."

"It must be. I've been racking my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong, but I can't. I just wanted to make you so happy that whatever it was wouldn't matter anymore."

At this, Fern's face screwed up, and she quickly buried it in her hands. She leaned back against the wall of the Sugar Bowl and began sobbing openly.

"But all I did was fail," Buster said.

"I don't know what I'm going to do!" said Fern as she used her jacket sleeve to wipe her eyes. "What do I say if Del Rey wants to represent me? He must be interested. Otherwise he wouldn't waste his time asking for a sample. No agent would. I'm not ready for this! I wanted to pursue a career in my own time, on my terms, and you messed things up with your carelessness!"

That stung. Was it possible to be careless while doing something out of nothing but care?

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No! Don't you dare try to help me!" she spat.

She backed away for a few paces before turning around to leave the alley.

"You've done more than enough already," she called out before rounding the corner and leaving him behind.

Buster wanted to yell in frustration but opted to kick a garbage can instead. That did not help. He grew more and more upset as he paced back and forth in the alley, hands clasped atop his head, looking like someone who had just lost his house and life savings on what was supposed to be a sure bet.

All he had wanted was to turn things around, but now they were worse than ever. How could he have known that Fern wanted to wait to be published? He thought that was why writers did what they did. Why did things have to be complicated? Why could she not be grateful?

Buster thought about how he had tried to equate his imposter email to Del Rey with Fern picking the lock on the Baxter cottage. In hindsight, the two actions were not comparable. He and Fern had decided to break into his former home together, but had he gotten Fern's permission to query an agent?

_No._

This brought to mind another instance during the investigation, when Buster had gotten upset with Fern for researching his parents without telling him. He himself had been experiencing complex feelings at the time, both wanting to know the truth and being terrified of it simultaneously. He remembered how infuriating it was, the prospect of someone shoving answers in his face when he was not sure if he wanted them. In the moment, Buster had been feeling the same thing Fern expressed today.

_You had no right!_

Buster had spent the past several days waiting with bated breath to hear from Del Rey. Now a second response was sure to come, and he dreaded what it might contain.

Fern was right. Not only had he been careless but selfish as well, and he had no idea what to do about it.

_To be continued…_

 


	17. Get Even

While Fern was on her way to storm the gates at the Sugar Bowl, Muffy sat in the limo, headed to the library. She could not show her face there, naturally, not after what happened there Sunday. What she could do was sit in the cabin while the limo remained parked outside the building for a couple of hours. Those hours could be used to do her homework, but Muffy knew that the majority of her time would likely be spent spaced out, alternating between thinking about how her goose was thoroughly cooked and being disgusted with herself for letting it happen.

After her run-in with Alan, anger sat like a heavy mass in her chest as she stared out the window at the passing shop windows on Main. Only that was not quite right. It was not just anger, and it did not just sit, either. Sitting would be an improvement. A weird, sickening mixture of feelings churned, and she wished they would go away and let her be.

"Miss Muffy," said Bailey from behind the wheel, "it may not be my place, but perhaps you should reconsider listening to what Master Powers has to say."

"You're right, Bailey," she said. "It's _not_ your place."

Her fingers inched toward the privacy screen button in case she needed to employ it.

"Alan's got some nerve, I'll give him that. He thinks I'll forget everything if he just shows up out of the blue and gives me sad puppy dog eyes."

"If I may, he seemed sincere in his attempt to extend an olive branch. Given your current predicament, might it be wise to reach out and take it?"

"You want me to go crawling back to him? Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, Miss Muffy, always yours. However, you are in dire straits, and I doubt very highly that you will be able to keep up this charade for very much longer, a fact which concerns me, if I may be so bold. As to your first question, how can you possibly 'go crawling back' when Master Powers is the one so obviously on his knees?"

She huffed.

"But you don't know the things he said to me. They were awful. He was supposed to be my friend."

"People can be cruel, yes," he said sagely. "And if they are lucky they recognize their folly and feel remorse for what they have done, and then they try to set things right. Would you not agree that _some_ people deserve to be heard after realizing their mistakes?"

Bailey had said the last part quite pointedly. Muffy had a good idea who the 'some people' he was referencing were, and she did not like it one bit. She rolled up the partition before he could say another word.

This was not the same thing as Chip and her father. Her father had left Chip out in the cold, and Chip had paid him back in kind by refusing to acknowledge his presence. There was a reason why they were miserable. Francine had been right the evening she had consoled Muffy in the food court. They were family. Deep down, deep, deep, down they cared about each other.

What was Alan to her? Just some guy who used to be her friend. If he hurt her, then she could hurt him back and walk away, no problem. It did not matter that he had picked up a curious habit of hiding himself away from his friends. It did not matter that something had obviously happened to spark such a change in him that he was a shadow of the person he once was. It did not matter that he had suffered some kind of meltdown and was now desperate to explain himself to her after hurting her. It did not matter that…

"I hate it when you're right," Muffy said to Bailey after rolling the window down again.

"But I do so enjoy it when you see sense, Miss Muffy," the butler said, sounding pleased with himself. "Now, shall we pay a visit to Master Powers?"

* * *

"What do you mean he's not here?" Muffy said to Alan's mother. "He said he had to work today."

Mrs. Powers was busy behind the counter of the ice cream shop, tending to a customer's order.

"I'm sorry, Muffy. It's Alan's day off," She said, layering a third scoop of toffee chocolate chip onto a sugar cone. "He probably misspoke. He keeps a very busy schedule."

_So I've seen._

* * *

After taking a seat in the limo again, Muffy dialed Alan's cell. She counted several rings, but he never picked up. Fine. A text, then. She wanted to ask why he had lied this afternoon about where he was going. He must have been lying. Alan never misspoke. However, she did not think it prudent to hassle him while trying to open talks, and she decided to keep it simple.

**Sorry I was mean. I will listen if you still want to talk.**

Muffy waited. A minute passed. Then two, then three.

"Oh, come on," she breathed, clenching the Drug Phone.

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" said Bailey.

"The library?"

She had no clue, and the library was just as good a place to start as any. What were the chances he might show up there for a change? As they drove on, Muffy tried calling Alan a couple more times. She was considering leaving him a desperate voicemail when Bailey spoke up.

"I believe we may have found him."

Muffy followed Bailey's gesture. Alan's bike was ahead, chained to a rack in front of a hobby shop.

"Pull over," she said, and Bailey parked on the curb near the shop's entrance. "I'll wait for him to come out."

Five minutes passed. Then fifteen, then thirty. Muffy made a frustrated noise.

"Did he _die_ in there? I'm going in."

She got out of the limo and stood in the open door, checking one last time to make sure that Alan had not responded. In the distance, a faint door chime caught her attention. She searched for the sound to find that it had come from across the street where the children's mental health center was located. That was when she froze. Exiting the facility, wearing Mill Creek Middle's unmistakable royal blue and golden yellow soccer warmup, was Alan. Of all places, why would he have been in there?

Alan looked to his left and then to his right before looking ahead to cross the street. Then he caught sight of her staring back at him, and he, too, stopped. He closed his eyes and gave a pained expression. Muffy had a feeling that, if he could have, Alan would have done an about-face and headed in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. It would seem that he had no intentions on leaving his bike behind, and so he crossed the street as soon as his path was clear. As he got closer and closer, his features became more and more defined, and Muffy could see fear in his watery, puffy eyes.

A lot of things started making sense, everything from the listlessness to the aggression, from the isolation to the excuses. He was trying to unlock his bike now with some difficulty, possibly due to a combination of nerves and the ample dressing on his hand. Muffy abandoned the limo, not even bothering to shut the door. She approached cautiously, unsure how to begin. This revelation had certainly thrown her. What did one say after inadvertently discovering that their friend was seeing a psychiatrist? Alan looked like he wanted to be anywhere instead of here right now.

"You said you were going to work," she said quietly. It was less accusatory and more stunned disbelief, but the statement instantly made her feel foolish.

_Whatever you're supposed to say, it's probably not that._

"Did you follow me?"

His voice was hoarse, scratchy. Bitter.

"N—No, but I have been looking for you. I tried calling…but I guess you had your phone on silent while…while you were in there."

"Great. This is just great. As if I didn't have enough— My life is over."

It was as if a shock had run through her. That was not what you wanted to hear from your friend after he exited a place like the one across the street.

"What do you mean by that?"

Alan threw a hand out to the side, gesturing toward the mental health center.

"You know about _this_ , and by the time you go to bed tonight, so will the entire school."

Muffy's jaw dropped.

"Surely you don't think—"

"I know you. The gossip queen? As soon as I leave, you'll tell Francine, and Jenna, and a dozen other people, and then they'll tell two friends, and _they'll_ tell two friends, and so on. It'll spread like a virus, and everyone will know that I'm…"

His voice was shaking.

_What? That you're what? Mentally ill?_

His eyes were tearing up, threatening to spill. He looked so ashamed of himself, and she felt a pang in her chest for him.

"So go on and do what you do, Muffy."

He continued to fumble with his bike chain. Her hand shot out and clasped around his wrist.

"I…I can't. I don't want to leave you alone, not like this."

_What am I doing?_

The look on Alan's face seemed to eco her thoughts.

She nodded toward the open limo door.

"Get in."

"No."

"Get in, _please_?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. I want to… Just trust me," she said as she led him to the vehicle.

They settled on one side of the cabin, Alan looking unsure as to why he had allowed himself to be dragged here. Muffy was just as unsure as to what she should do next but decided that rolling the privacy window up was a good place to start, and she did so.

"Are you okay?" she said.

Alan was crying now. He let loose a short, boisterous "ha!" and asked, "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think. I think I'm scared."

"Well, don't be. It's not your affliction."

_I am_ so _in over my head right now._

By anyone's standards, she was not a nurturer. How in the world could someone like her handle something like this? Still, she wanted to help, and she needed Alan to understand that under no circumstances was she out to cause him more pain. She had to get him to calm down first. She thought hard about where to go from here.

"Sparkling or still?"

Alan broke from his misery to stare at her.

"Wha—What?" he hiccoughed.

"You need to hydrate," she said insistently, kneeling to get a better look at the mini fridge's contents, "so do you want sparkling or still?"

In one hand she held a bottle of Evian, in the other a pink grapefruit Perrier.

"Um…"

"Take the sparkling," she said. "The bubbles will soothe your throat."

Alan looked bewilderedly at the Perrier after she pressed it into his good hand.

"Oh, something else—" she said.

Muffy set to work looking through her purse until she produced a handkerchief. She rolled down her window and used the Evian to soak the cloth before ringing it out, not caring that some of the water ran along her arms, wetting her sweater sleeves while the rest dribbled rivulets down the side of the limo.

"Use this on your face. It'll help cool you down."

He looked at her skeptically.

"It—it helps me when I'm freaking out."

As Muffy marveled over her blatant candor, Alan wedged the water bottle between his knees and took the handkerchief from her. Tentatively, he pressed the cloth to the side of his face, looking back at her as if he were doing it to appease her more so than to help himself. He had apparently not expected any of this from her, either. Once the experience of the cold cloth kicked in, however, he moved it to his eyes and held it there with his right hand. He moved the water bottle to his side and resumed his position, this time slouching forward, elbows to knees. There he rested; Muffy could hear him breathing deeply through his nose.

"Look… I have no idea what I'm doing, but I don't want you to be upset because you think I'm going to ruin your life. You can hold the hankie to the air conditioning to make it colder," she added.

Alan did as she had suggested and held the fabric next to the vent.

"After what happened Sunday, I wouldn't blame you," he said, concentrating on what he was doing.

"I promise I wasn't following you. I tried to get in touch first."

Alan took a few seconds to check his phone.

"I don't see any missed calls or texts from you."

" _Crap._ Then who did I contact? Anyway, I went looking for you because I changed my mind. Sunday… Maybe it has something to do with everything else going wrong in my life, but…as much as I've tried to pretend that I'll get over it, I don't think I will. It bothers me. Knowing that the person who belittled me is not the same person I've known for most of my life bothers me even more. I wanted to find you and give you another chance, to set things right if we can."

If she could just stop hearing her father for two seconds…

"I wasn't expecting to find, you know, what I found today. But please, trust me, I _won't_. I swear on…on my family that I'll never tell anyone. You wouldn't believe how good I've gotten at keeping secrets."

"On your family?"

She nodded.

"That's the most important thing to me."

He grinned as much as a distraught person could grin, and pressed the cold handkerchief to the back of his neck.

"Not your _phone_?"

"In the past five years, before he moved back, that is, I saw Chip once. _Once_ , and we all had a terrible time. He and Daddy…their relationship is less than stellar. I travel to Belmont to visit him because he hates coming here. Or I did until Daddy took that away from me along with everything else. As much as I miss my Infinity, I miss my brother more."

"Then why didn't you apply yourself?"

"I tried, but I literally can't. It's like there's a mental block going on. I get so bogged down, worrying about what's going to happen to my family, and it's all I can think about. Everything is…too much now. I bet your questionnaire couldn't have told you that."

"Probably not."

"Everything is so messed up, Alan. I think…I think I might be afraid of my father."

She realized how scandalized her voice sounded.

"It's like, I _know_ he loves me. He loves my brother, too. But he has certain expectations of what we can do, what we can become. Chip couldn't meet them, apparently, and Daddy cut him off."

She had not planned to go anywhere near this far, but it was as if she could not stop. What made it okay to voice that particular fear now and with him when it never had been okay with anyone else before? Alan was listening intently, and it made her want to keep going.

"I have no idea what was said between them. All I know is that my father confronted Chip about his grades and spending, and by the time he made it back home, Chip had vanished without a trace. If his love wasn't enough to keep him from being cruel to Chip, then who's to say he won't do the same thing to me if I don't meet his expectations?"

_Cruel. I can't believe I finally said it._

As Muffy had cried and confessed her family woes to Francine that day in the food court, she had said that she never imagined that her father could be so extreme, stopping herself short of saying what she really thought: her father had been cruel to her brother.

Parents were not supposed to hurt their children, and the fact that her father had disturbed Muffy. Whether or not he felt any remorse for what he had done, it was impossible to unhurt his son. Whatever he had said or done, it had stuck with Chip to this day. She heard his voice again, from that day outside the principal's office.

_How you treat people_ matters _, Muffy._

Yes, it does.

"How long have you been doing this?" she said, trying to shift the focus back to him.

She had expected him to tell her that it was none of her business, but he opened up with little more than a few seconds of hesitation.

"This time around, I'm a couple of days in. I started again on Monday. I first saw Dr. Paula—Dr. Hartmann-Krause—when I was nine, to help with my anxiety. I went back a couple of years ago for…other issues, but I left therapy because I thought I could help myself. It didn't work, so I'm back."

"What for?"

"Essentially, I'm a patchwork of emotional chaos, plus my hydrophobia never ceases to crop up in new and interesting ways, but you knew about that."

"But not about all that other stuff."

"That was by design."

"You have a problem with people knowing?"

"The stigma attached to it. I'd rather keep it to myself."

"But you're getting help. You wouldn't feel embarrassed for having a cast on your broken leg."

"Maybe not, but you wouldn't feel embarrassed for having a broken leg in the first place, not to mention broken legs actually heal. There's no real cure for what I've got. Management is the highest possible achievement."

"Oh."

He had said it matter-of-factly, not trying to sound pessimistic at all, but it made Muffy feel sad, hearing him say something like that. She was not sure that Alan was right to be ashamed, but she could certainly understand where he was coming from.

"I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am for Sunday," he said. "I wasn't in a good place that day."

He made a soft, amused noise, shaking his head.

"I'm already starting to sound like my therapist…but it's the truth. I've been very out of sorts. I reached my breaking point that day, and I just started swinging. You happened to be in my path, and that's exceedingly unfair."

"Those things you said, Alan, they didn't come from nowhere," she said wearily.

There was a reason why people got mad, blew up, and stormed off. Confronting issues in a rational manner took a lot more effort than she realized. Laying everything out on the table, dissecting it, was absolutely draining.

"Admittedly," he said, "I had certain opinions formed. That sounds egregious, I know."

"Not really. That was by design, too."

Alan gave her a questioning look. Muffy shrugged.

"I know what people think about me. That I'm shallow. Affected. That I live a life of excess, so I couldn't possibly know about real sadness. I'm not stupid, even if some people think I am."

"For the record, I don't think that at all. On the contrary, anyone who read and understood _The Essays of Warren Buffett_ at the age of seven couldn't possibly be unintelligent."

"Thanks. After Chip left, he told me his whereabouts but swore me to secrecy. I used to think it was so Daddy wouldn't find him; a part of me now wonders if it was some sort of revenge. He threatened me with disappearing forever if I told. I didn't want to lose him, so I never said a word. I communicated with Chip in secret while my parents were left in the dark. It put a strain on them. I know it did. I caught them arguing, even though they tried to hide it. After that, I spent months worrying over whether they might get divorced."

Another exclusive confession.

"I had to do something to keep from going crazy—no offense—or at the very least save face. Everything that makes me _me_ , I threw myself into it like one of those weird method actors, only I was playing myself. I turned up the volume on my personality, hoping no one would be able to see the panic that was going on inside me."

"You were afraid of people finding out," he said knowingly.

He was trying to open the Perrier now, struggling.

"Here," Muffy said, motioning for the bottle.

Having been in Alan's lap, it was no longer as cold as it had been. It would not be nearly as refreshing. She quickly exchanged it for a new bottle from the fridge, unscrewed the cap, and handed it back to him. Alan took a few huge gulps, draining over half the contents as she continued.

"Like you said: the stigma," said Muffy. "My family has done a lot for the community. I don't care if it sounds silly, we have a reputation to uphold. I wouldn't want to be the one responsible for tarnishing it, for making people think we're anything but…"

"Perfect?"

"Not perfect. _Strong_ , I think. Capable. That we've got it together. So, I used my persona like a…a shield, I guess. If anyone thought those things you said Sunday, that was fine. I was sure that I could live with it. It was better than being thought of as weak. At least, that's what I _thought_. Hearing someone express those thoughts verbally, loudly, and in a quiet room full of people…well, that wasn't so fine."

"And I feel horrible about that, I really do. I must've written fifteen pages on it in my pocket journal."

"Pocket journal?"

He took another swig of water then waved the bottle around nonchalantly.

"It's part of my therapy. But really, I regret Sunday as a whole, the way I treated you in particular. All I can do is explain myself, Muffy. There is no _excuse_ for what I did."

"Well, I _was_ being a pill," she said. "I'm sorry, too, for being horrible today and also for not being able to give you my attention. I kind of got used to distracting myself whenever things started getting to me. My useless garbage has always been there for me. But at some point, wanting it in my life became _needing_ it in my life. If I used it to occupy my mind, then it was harder for the scary stuff to get through. Lately things have been getting to me a lot. This punishment has just made things worse. I had this pie-in-the-sky dream that I was going to save my family, that I was going to be the one to unite us, but I can't even save my grades on my own. I know everything I'm saying sounds super cra—that none of it makes any sense, but—"

"It makes more sense than you realize," Alan said. "I crave distraction, too."

"Does that make me...?"

Muffy stopped herself, realizing how insensitive the question would sound.

"Crazy?" Alan said with the tiniest hint of a smirk. "I don't think so. It likely just means you're desperate. You were right about my agenda, you know. It's largely spurious. I filled in a lot of lines just so I could quash the guys' complaints. All I really wanted was to stay in my shop and work on my projects because, when I did, I felt a profound calmness I couldn't get anywhere else. That's what kept the scary stuff away for me. I thought it would keep me out of that place," he said, pointing to the mental health center, "but it wasn't enough, because distraction and resolution aren't one and the same. Instead, my desperate acts helped turn me into a person I abhor and an utterly negligent tutor as well."

"I'm sure you're great," Muffy offered encouragingly, patting Alan on the forearm, "you know, when you're not in the middle of a crisis."

"Well, there's only one way to find out. Will you give me a chance to make it up to you? Let me tutor you, free of charge this time, and I'll give you my word that I will do everything in my ability to help you. Please, will you?"

"No," Muffy said.

"But—"

"You're not going to do it for free, Alan. A deal's a deal."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. I accept your apology, okay? You don't owe me anything else. And I just made you privy to _my_ personal problems. I think that makes us even-steven in terms of deep, dark secrets. Nothing leaves this cabin. We'll start at square one with the same arrangement and the same payment we agreed on, nothing less."

She thought for a moment then added, "Plus, I have to take Daddy into consideration. We don't want to raise any red flags with him. Those are the terms, take it or leave it—though I really want you to take it because I'm still very, very desperate."

Alan nodded thoughtfully. It appeared as if he had not even considered her father while planning his appeal.

"Fair point," he said, and this time it was he who offered his hand.

As Muffy shook hands with him, an overwhelming compulsion swept over her, and she did something that not only surprised her, but took Alan off guard as well. She pulled him close. He crashed into her, and she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"I'm so sorry you're going through this," she whispered, choking up.

"You're…crushing my…larynx," grunted Alan.

His arms were pinned to his sides. His body had seized up again.

_At fifteen, you'd think he'd stop being afraid of girls_.

Except that was a silly thought. Alan was not afraid of girls. He certainly had not been afraid of…

"Oh, my god," she said, pulling away from him.

Alan looked grateful to be free of the embrace.

"What?" he said, massaging his neck. "What is it?"

Alan said that he had tried therapy again a couple of years ago. Could she be right? Things Alan had said played back to her like sound bites.

_I'm a patchwork of emotional chaos…I wasn't in a good place that day…You're alive and well—you know nothing about suffering!_

It had been nearly two years since…

"Muffy?"

"I get it," she said, surveying his face as if she were trying to find something hidden in his features. "Oh, you poor thing… This has something to do with Lydia, doesn't it?"

Alan was stunned.

"L—Lydia?" he managed.

He wore the look of a helpless little boy, and she felt the pang again, same as earlier.

"Of _course_ it does. I should have put this together sooner. Oh, _how_ could I be so blind?"

Alan still looked to be struggling with his vocabulary. He gaped at her.

"Wow," she said in a hushed voice. "None of us could believe it. It still doesn't seem real. It hit a lot of us pretty hard, but I imagine... Considering the way you felt about her… Oh, my god, Alan, you must've been devastated."

"I…didn't know anyone knew about that," he said, "about her and me."

" _I've_ known since fourth grade. You were flirting with her at the ice cream shop while I was there with Daddy. I know affection when I see it. It's kind of a gift. I don't think anyone else knew. They still think you're a robot," she quipped good-naturedly then thought about something she had been wondering for years. "Did _she_ know?"

"Um, yeah," he said, dropping his gaze. "I made it pretty clear to her."

He looked uncomfortable now.

"Listen, I'd better go. I'll be in touch."

He reached across Muffy and placed the empty Perrier on top of the custom tray built over the mini fridge. He grabbed the door handle, but she clasped his shoulder.

"No, no, no. Alan, please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. That was dumb of me to press. I didn't mean to upset you. Please, stay. Forgive me?"

He looked at her appraisingly, and then, deciding she must be sincere, he nodded.

"It's all right," he said.

How did she tell him that she still did not want to leave him alone? How did she express that she did want to be by herself, either?

"Have dinner at my house?"

She rolled the partition down once again.

"Bailey, what's for dinner tonight?"

"Mutton, Miss Muffy."

"Do you like mutton?" she asked Alan. "It doesn't matter; you can have whatever you want if you don't. I can have Bailey load your bike and take you back home later."

He seemed to take into consideration that she was flashing him the most pleading of pleading smiles.

"Well, gripping the handlebars _does_ pull at my stitches…" he said thoughtfully. "I think it might be all right. I'll just have to call and check in with Mom. She's been worried lately, understandably so… Okay."

"If you want, we can stop by your place and get your school stuff. I'll even try to answer your questionnaire."

"Sure, but may I make a suggestion? Instead of filling out my dumb survey, why don't we just talk?"

"Alan, it's like you've read my mind."

Muffy smiled as she cracked open a bottle of water for herself. Neither she nor Alan could solve their problems in one afternoon, but at least they were taking steps in the right direction, however small. And they were taking them together. In this moment, on the tail of what had seemed like an endless series of defeats, this victory felt huge.

_To be continued…_


	18. All the Difference in the World

 

Alan paid a visit to the school nurse before lunch Thursday so she could administer to him a dose of his antibiotic. The medicine had killed his appetite since he had begun the course. In addition to queasiness, it always brought about an astringent taste in his mouth. He was required to take them with food, however, and so he would go through the motions every day until all cobalt-colored capsules were finally consumed.

When he exited the nurse's office, Muffy was waiting for him in the hall. She looked well-rested and in far better spirits than yesterday, and she had even put a little extra care into her appearance. Her long hair was swept over one shoulder in an elegant and seemingly complex braid. She greeted him with a bright-eyed and pleasant smile.

"You didn't have to wait on me," he said as they headed toward the cafeteria, taking perhaps a bit more time than they would have on an average day.

"I know. How's your hand?" she said, pointing toward the scant dressing now covering his knuckles.

On the ride to Muffy's house yesterday afternoon, Alan had continued to apologize profusely. He recounted the events that had pushed him over the edge Sunday and even came clean about how he had really injured his hand. Muffy had not disguised her horror well during that part, but she had seemed sympathetic, even offering him tissues from her purse when he began to choke up again.

"It itches inordinately," Alan said, "so it must be healing."

"Wait—that's _true_? I thought skin just got irritated from wearing bandages."

"Definitely true. When cells begin to knit together, it sort of wakes up the nerves, creating an itch."

"Hmm…" Muffy said thoughtfully. "See, I knew I picked the right person to tutor me. I'm glad you're feeling itchy. My day has been going pretty well, too. Like you suggested, I have all my assignments written in my agenda, and I'm certain I took down my notes perfectly. Best of all, I haven't spaced out once."

"Excellent. Do you remember my other suggestions?"

"Yes. I have all my notes in one notebook, and I used the flags you gave me to keep them separated by subject. Oh, and I dated my pages."

"Awesome. Now, remember to avoid distraction. Stay away from your room, the den, anywhere you might be tempted to do anything other than schoolwork. Hold yourself accountable by choosing a place where anyone can see you, like your dining room table. Speaking of homework, I have a small assignment for you tonight—an exercise, really, though I _will_ be reviewing your work. I think it will help you study your notes. A lot of questions on our quizzes generally stem from them, so it's a good idea to stay updated. The exercise incorporates repetition and paraphrasing to help you absorb the information as well as think in your own words. You never know when an essay question will sneak up on you…"

Muffy looked nervous.

"I almost forgot I'm flying solo tonight."

"I'll be back with you tomorrow," he said encouragingly. "I'd be there this afternoon, but I'm working toward a deadline on Mr. Baxter's turntable, plus I have a couple of make-up assignments. I lost a lot of time because of this," he said, wiggling the fingers of his left hand.

One would think he would have learned his lesson by now about losing time over stupid choices. He debated with himself on whether he should add it to the pocket journal.

"I'll explain everything to you before you leave today, plus I have a pack of three-by-fives and some written instructions for you. And you're not solo, not really. Feel free to call me if you have questions."

"Oh, no. You already have a ton to do. I don't want to bother—"

"It's not a bother. I made a promise. Now promise _me_ that you'll call if you need me."

"Oh-kay," Muffy said. "But promise me something else?"

"Sorry, one promise per person per agreement," he joked.

"Then promise me as a _friend_ that you'll hang out with the boys the next time they want to include you."

Alan nodded.

"If I have time, I'll—"

"Nope. None of that. Like the slogan says," she said, glancing down at his high-tops, "Just do it."

"You make it sound like I'm ripping off a Band-Aid."

"Here's a tip: if you want to keep them off your case _and_ out of your business, you'll need to mingle with them more. A classic strategy, BS-ing 101. Also," she said sincerely if a bit shyly, "it'll be good for you. But that's just what I think. I'm not a life coach or licensed therapist. So…when do you see your…friend again?"

"Do you mean my friend Paula? I begin weekly…visits with her next Monday. I hope that doesn't hamper our schedule."

"Even if it did, we'd work around it," she said seriously, "but it actually works out fine. Chip is off work on Mondays. If I ever get my visitation rights back—"

" _When_ ," Alan said, "not _if_."

"When I get them back, I'll be free to go to Belmont."

"Good. That's good. Doesn't it feel strange, talking about this stuff?"

"After keeping it bottled up for years?" Muffy said, "It feels super weird. But it also feels kind of…good."

* * *

When Alan made it to the table with his lunch tray, Muffy was already seated across from Arthur and Francine.

As he approached, he heard Francine say to Muffy, "My phone crapped out yesterday afternoon, so I didn't see your text until this morning. What do you mean you're sorry for being mean?"

"Well, that solves _that_ mystery," Muffy said. "Sorry, Francine, that text was for someone else."

Alan worked hard to keep from smiling. It was a refreshing change from having to work hard to force a smile. He took a seat next to Muffy.

"You left this behind at the register," he said to her, placing a bottle of spring water on the table next to her tray. "It's important to stay hydrated."

"Thanks," she said, giving him a knowing grin.

He felt as if they were being watched. Muffy must have felt the same way. They both looked to see Francine staring at them. As if trying to break free of a trance, Francine shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she said to them. "I feel like I'm in _The Twilight Zone_. I can't believe you two want to be anywhere near each other, never mind you're actually being nice to each other."

Commonalities had a way of uniting people, creating bonds between them, no matter how great their superficial differences. Just as well, crises could, on occasion, turn enemies into allies.

"What are you talking about?" Muffy said nonchalantly. "Alan and I get along famously."

"Really? Just the other day you called him an assho—"

"We're _fine_ , Francine. Totally, completely fine. Right, Alan?"

_That depends entirely on context_.

As individuals, Alan agreed that Muffy and he were both hot messes, as Muffy had put it yesterday before they had exited the limo at the Crosswire estate. They each had serious, deeply-rooted issues that did not have easy solutions. As friends? After yesterday, their relationship was stronger than it had ever been.

"Everything's copacetic," he assured Francine.

"Did someone say 'pathetic'?" said a familiar voice. "Must be talking about me."

Buster plopped down with his tray next to Francine. He looked morose as he began lunch by tearing his roll in two, shoving one half into his mouth.

"Oh, jeez," muttered Francine. "Enter the one-man pity party."

Alan looked to Muffy who looked back at him curiously. He had a feeling this might have something to do with the envelope Buster showed him yesterday.

"Are you upset that Fern tried to kill you?" said Muffy.

"Wait 'til you hear what he did," Francine said. "Go on, Buster, tell them."

Reluctantly, Buster recounted what happened at the Sugar Bowl the day before, with Arthur and Francine assisting whenever he became too embarrassed.

"Can you believe it?" Francine said, "This guy right here wrote a query to a literary agent and the agent actually wanted to see more. Can you _believe_ it?"

"Don't answer that," Buster mumbled. "Thanks, Francine. Kick a man when he's down, why don't you."

"But I'm kicking you out of love."

"I still can't believe you thought it was okay to impersonate Fern," Arthur said.

"Not to mention he solicited her work without her permission. Talk about a dumbass move."

"Well, the publishing industry is hard to break into, isn't it?" said Muffy thoughtfully.

It was clear that she was not in the mood to take a swipe at Buster, and neither was he.

"Yeah," Alan offered. "That Buster got a response with his first and only query is actually pretty impressive."

"I'll tell you what's impressive," Binky said, stopping as he passed by their table, "the way Fern came _this_ close to going full lucha libre on Buster. She was going to leap over the table and clean his clock. Fortunately, yours truly stopped her."

Binky broke from his mirth momentarily to regard Alan with and impressed nod.

"Hey, Al."

"Hi, Binky."

"It's about time you joined the living again, man."

Alan felt Muffy give his arm the slightest nudge with her elbow.

"Yeah, thanks," Alan said as Binky strode off to a table on the far side of the cafeteria, where sat Sue Ellen, who looked to be in intense conversation with a miserable-looking Fern.

Alan thought about Binky's apropos choice of words. He had not known how right he had been. Alan had joined the living, or at least, he was trying to.

* * *

Alan stopped in front of the shop door Thursday afternoon, placing the package containing the turntable's drive belt on the ground while he worked on opening the door. The belt had arrived yesterday, second day air. Alan's father had paid for the order, with Alan reimbursing him.

Alan was grateful for his parents. He could not imagine being part of a family like Muffy's, in which motives could be called into question, open and honest conversation was a thing to be feared, and love was, apparently, conditional. Conversely, Alan's parents were understanding and supportive, especially in times of difficulty or crisis.

Sometimes when he stopped to reflect on his fortune, Alan would have a fleeting fear that something would happen, that he would lose one or both of them. Maybe he did not deserve something so good in his life. The last time Alan had a relationship he thought was too good to be true, Lydia had been taken away from him in the blink of an eye. Who was to say it would not happen again? He knew that it was preposterous to think that some unseen force was passing judgement on his destiny, but anxiety did not operate on logic.

In his hands Alan held a pair of bolt cutters, purchased this afternoon along with a new EV-R-LOCK padlock. As it turned out, they had never owned bolt cutters. He picked up the lock on the door. The key was still in it, its chain dangling. As he held the lock steady to feed one of the bolt cutter blades through the shackle, he noticed something. A small fraction of the key blade had not been inserted properly, leaving one notch and one tooth exposed. If only he had not panicked Sunday and had been able to slow down and think clearly and calmly, he would have seen that all the lock had needed was a slight extra push. Alan tucked the bolt cutters under his arm while he wiggled the key. It had warped slightly from the force Alan had applied in his frenzy and so it gave some resistance, but it eventually slid in all the way. He turned the key, and the lock popped open with a small, satisfying _click!_ Alan made a noise somewhere between disgust and amusement, and then he opened the door.

He switched on the lights, a solar network he had set up himself, and looked at the scene before him. The clock radio still sat on the corner of his worktable, along with a few fragments resulting from the abuse he had given it and several dark drops of his dried blood. Alan raked the radio into a wastebasket and set to cleaning up the blood using a handful of disinfectant wipes.

That left the matter of the screw that was somewhere underneath the shelving. Had he been in a better emotional and mental state Sunday, Alan would have known exactly what to do. He pulled open the top drawer of his tool chest, a gift for his fifteenth birthday, and took out a long, thin Phillips-head screwdriver, one he had magnetized himself using a 9-volt battery and a length of wire salvaged from a speaker box. He got on his hands and knees and carefully slid the screwdriver into the gap. Slowly, he swept it from side to side and then held his breath while he extracted it. He exhaled, a smile playing across his face when he saw the small screw clinging to the screwdriver's tip, only to fade as quickly as it had appeared.

He sat on the floor, contemplating what his stubbornness had cost him, including time with his family and friends as well as progress where his mental health was concerned. He had ended up losing himself to the point of inflicting physical harm on himself and emotional harm on a friend, the latter of which he found most horrifying. Being a genius as well as being a good problem solver had its pitfalls. Having a lot of the answers was not equal to having all of them, and that was sometimes as hard to admit as it was easy to forget. Coupling that with his fear of confronting his emotions, Alan had mixed a nasty poison for himself.

His pensive state was broken by the sound of his phone playing "Feels Like Rain" by Buddy Guy. Lately, Alan had kept his phone silenced save for text alerts. There had been no one with whom he wanted to converse. He had switched the ringer on today just in case Muffy called him. He took his phone from his pocket, feeling a small but odd sense of relief that it was indeed her. He answered.

"I have a question about the index cards," she said timidly.

"No problem. What do you want to know?"

"Okay, so before I start paraphrasing, do you want, like, a header card for each stack—you know, a hard copy of the highlighted subject from my notes? It might save you the trouble of looking them up in my notebook."

"That's…a pretty helpful suggestion. It's your discretion. You don't have to add more to your workload right out of the gate."

"Actually," she said, "I'm kind of jazzed to get started. Okay, that's all I needed to know. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the help, Alan, and I really mean that."

Upon hanging up, Alan experienced the first genuinely good feeling he had felt in a long time.

* * *

_2005_

"Do you ever get angry?" said Alan.

It was a nice spring day, and he and Lydia were on the park basketball court, playing their sixth game of H-O-R-S-E. They often carried on casual conversation this way because Lydia was a fan of "multitasking", her way of saying she wanted to stay as active as possible, although she preferred silence during chess. Having called a swish, she prepared to take aim, wearing the look she always wore while mentally calculating distance. He secretly loved that look.

"In general, or about something in particular?" she said. "Judging by your tone, it sounds like something in particular."

Lydia took the shot. It was a perfect swish, and she celebrated by doing a short raise-the-roof dance in her wheelchair.

"I was wondering about your situation. I know you were born like you are, but…does it ever get to you, knowing that life will always undeniably be a bit more difficult?"

After the hurricane, Alan had the sneaking suspicion that he might always battle with his anxiety, among other things. He had, after all, nearly drowned when he was five, which had probably encouraged not only his hydrophobia, but perhaps every other issue he faced. He had recovered from the aftermath of Sadie, but he could always feel unease within, bubbling just under the surface. It worried Alan that his life might always undeniably be a bit more difficult, too. He would never tell Lydia about any of this; he liked having her around too much. But if he could pick her brain and find out how she dealt…

"Oooh, the deep stuff. We've reached _that_ level of friendship… I mean, sure," she said, wheeling herself over to the fence where the ball had ended up. "There are times when I get frustrated and, yeah, _upset_ because there are things I'll never be able to do. Sometimes I even get scared at the prospect of my disability putting me at a disadvantage during an emergency, like a fire. I'd be lying if I said it hasn't kept me awake a few times."

She tossed the ball to him, and he caught it as it thunked him in the chest.

"What I try to remember, though, is that life is what you make it. Sometimes it can be bad, but it's not _all_ bad. I can stay awake, fearful, or I can cry myself to sleep because I'll never know what dancing is like. But what I'd rather do is spend my time doing something useful, something fulfilling, or something that helps someone else. Sometimes I do none of that. I just chill out and watch _Battlestar Galactica_."

"That's how you deal?"

"It makes all the difference in the world," she said.

* * *

Lydia had figured out how to cope at an early age. She accepted her situation, choosing to focus on the things she could do rather than dwell on the things she could not do, and she had taken solace in helping others. She had always been better than he when it came to the deep stuff.

There was something satisfying about being able to make a thing whole again, to give it a second chance at life. That was what had put him here in the shop to begin with. But nothing he had ever constructed or refurbished, however satisfying, matched the feeling the gratitude in Muffy's voice had given him. He knew that he was doing something that mattered, and it really did make all the difference in the world.

Alan still held his phone in one hand, the screwdriver in the other. He pocketed the phone and deftly plucked the screw from the screwdriver, pinching it between his thumb and fingertip as he stood, pleased that dexterity had returned to his hand. He felt a new determination rising inside him. It was like cold starting an old engine in January, but it was there, doggedly heating up.

There was work to be done. The Thorens would be fixed ahead of schedule, and he would hand in his make-up work tomorrow. An idea for a new project was brewing in his mind, and he needed a clear slate. Alan pulled out his stool and sat down, opening the drive belt with a zip of the pull tab on the package. In anticipation of getting started, he too, could not help but feel kind of jazzed.

_To be continued…_

 

   
---


	19. The Other Side

 

Buster closed his umbrella as he approached the front door of the house early Saturday afternoon. As promised, the rain had moved back in yesterday evening. It was steady and light this time around, and Buster did not mind walking in it. Even if he had, he would likely still be here right now. For some reason, he had felt compelled to come.

He had lost a lot of sleep over Wednesday afternoon, when his attempt to win over Fern had gone down in flames. He spent the remainder of the week bummed out, and his friends were not helping. Of course, they had offered him their best "hang in there" speeches, too, but they had also taken him to task for what he had done, leaving Buster feeling hollow, like he was in search of something.

"Buster, hey!" Ladonna said upon opening the front door of the Compson residence. "Want some shrimp and grits?"

The typical Ladonna greeting, dripping with classic Southern hospitality.

"I didn't know you liked football," Buster said, noting Ladonna's getup, a cropped purple LSU hoodie worn over a white tank and jeans.

"Oh, this?" she said, giving her outfit a once-over. "Another hand-me-down from Madison. I do like wearin' it, though, 'cause it's super warm, just right for a rainy day."

She was leaning on the doorjamb now, and she had gone full chatterbox.

"I mean, it's not that I dislike football. It's okay, I guess. Dad and Gussie are the real SEC fans—Gussie's visitin' for the weekend, you see. Whenever a game's on, we sort of make a family get-together out of it. We just make a bunch of food and sit around and play board games while he and Dad keep up with the score."

"Oh. I should go then. I don't want to interrupt family stuff."

Ladonna laughed as if Buster had just said something very silly.

"Come on in, goober," she said as she all but dragged him through the door.

Minutes later, the two were sitting next to each other on the back porch steps, sheltered from the drizzle. They each had a warm bowl of shrimp and grits, which, according to Ladonna, had a "Cajun twist". At their sides sat a generous slice of sweet potato pie apiece as well as tall glasses of sweetened iced tea.

"So how is it, havin' your dad back in town?" said Ladonna.

"Pretty great but kind of strange at times. I still catch myself wanting to call him, but then I realize I can see him in person. He's coming over for dinner tonight."

"That's awesome. Does he like his new job?"

"He seems to. I'll get a tour of the hangar as soon as he and Rick get settled in."

"Flyin' for a livin' must be pretty amazin'. I've never even been on a plane before."

"Really?"

"Nope. Been on plenty of boats but never a plane. But I can just imagine it, travelin' hundreds of miles an hour in a big metal tube that defies gravity and bein' able to look down on everythin' all at once." She gave a shiver at the notion. "I bet it feels magical."

"You know, you're right. It is pretty cool. I guess I got so used to flying I just stopped thinking of it that way."

They grew quiet for a moment while they ate. There was a pregnant pause as silverware clinked against ceramics and water rushed out of gutters and gurgled onto the lawn.

"Ya wanna to talk about Fern?" Ladonna said.

"How'd you know?"

"Just a hunch. Your little kerfuffle in the Sugar Bowl's become legendary thanks in part to Binky. He says he'll never cross Fern Walters as long as he lives. Is your ear still sore?"

"You know it."

"Bless your heart. From the look on your face, I can tell ya know ya overstepped without hearin' it from me."

"You're the one who said I should do something nice for her."

"I meant get her a book or somethin'…a cupcake, at least. I never dreamed you'd aim so high."

"Yeah, well, I really buried myself. I thought I was doing the ultimate nice thing, but all I did was hurt her even more. Our friendship is over unless I figure out how to fix it."

"I'm really sorry to say it, Buster, but I don't think this is somethin' ya figure out how to fix. The damage is done, no matter what that agent has to say. As far as forgivin' ya goes, it's all on Fern now."

"Do you think that's possible?"

Ladonna gave it a moment's thought before replying.

"My dad says a person who _wants_ to be mad can stay mad forever. And Fern _can_ be pretty intense."

Buster knew that was true. Fern's intensity was a characteristic he found both interesting and unsettling at the same time.

"Guess I'll be waiting around forever, then," he said glumly.

Ladonna put her spoon down and patted him gently on the knee. She did not deem this gesture sufficiently comforting, it would seem, for she then draped her skinny arm across the back of his neck. She laid her head on one of his shoulders while giving the other a comforting squeeze.

"You've got a really good heart. Hopefully she remembers that."

Maybe this was what he had needed, the thing for which he had been searching. Buster did not know if he deserved sympathy, but it sure felt nice to have it.

"Thanks, Ladonna."

"Ya know what ya should be doin' while your waitin' 'round forever?"

He looked at her.

"Enjoyin' your family. Your dad's home for the first time in years. To _stay_. Don't let this upset steal that happiness."

Buster wanted to enjoy himself, he really did. He was incredibly happy that his father was coming over for dinner, but this thing with Fern hung over his mood like a dark cloud that made the ones in the sky pale in comparison. He guessed that, if there was one bright spot to be seen, it was that his parents were being cordial to each other after things had been so tense. Even if Fern chose to stay mad at him forever, at least the Baxter's future was looking bright.

* * *

"You haven't lost your touch, Bitz," Bo said as he came into the kitchen.

He held two wine glasses by their stems, each wedged between the fingers of one hand, while a stack of three water glasses were in the other, the top glass used as a means of transporting all the used flatware.

Dinner had been at seven-thirty. It was after midnight, well past time to be clearing everything up, but the night had gone so well that no one wanted to break the mood. All three Baxters sat around the dining room table, talking, joking around, and catching up, along with the occasional heavy yawn from Buster. He had looked tired all throughout dinner though he seemed eager. It was after eleven when it became obvious that he was fighting to stay awake, elbows on the table, propping his head up with his hands, and Bitzi suggested he go on up to bed.

"We're about to wrap things up anyway, kiddo," Bo had said to his son. "I'm just going to help your mom clean up, then I'm outta here."

But even after Buster had gone upstairs, Bo had hung around. They chatted at the table, finishing the last of the malbec that had paired so well with dinner. He talked about the flight school and about how Rick and his daughter April were doing. He and Bitzi had attended April's college graduation, and Bitzi seemed genuinely interested to hear that she was now working with her father. Bitzi talked about her recent string of late hours and how the _Times_ was working on establishing a bigger online and social media presence.

There were things that Bo wanted to talk about with her, things that felt as if they were hovering right above his head. That moment at the dinner table, quiet, private, while the two of them were calm and friendly and loosened up would have been the perfect time to tell her. He had hesitated, however, and the next thing he knew she suggested they get started.

Now he wondered if he could still take advantage of their time alone.

"That roast was out of this world. Thanks again for the invite. I don't like to think about all the sodium I consume from takeout."

"I'm glad you liked it," she said over her shoulder. "We'll do it again sometime."

Her back was to him as she rinsed plates from the dirty stack next to the sink before transferring them to the dishwasher.

"I could also teach you some recipes if you want. I've got some mean one-pot pastas and fail-proof sheet pan dinners in my repertoire."

"I'm sure I'd find a way to bungle them," he said as he placed the drinkware on the counter.

"Cooking intimidates you. Always has. Skillets can smell fear, you know. Casseroles, too."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I read it somewhere… _Martha Stewart Living_ , I think."

Bo chuckled.

"He gets his humor from you," he mused. "and his inquisitive nature. You really think I'm intimidated?"

"Yes. By anything domesticated or mundane."

She wasn't being snarky, but there was an underlying confidence in her teasing, as if that was her true opinion of him. And he found it irksome. Bo was the first to admit that he was a bad cook. He always had been. No matter how hard he tried to improve, it had never seemed to click. But what was this jive about him hating domestic life? Maybe the Cobb Patterson story had gotten to her and she now believed in the version of Bo Baxter she had created.

In reality, he had been perfectly happy doing his job, flying for a few days out of the month, and then spending the rest of his time at home with his wife and son. It was a great schedule for someone who would one day be the father of three kids. To him it really had been the best of both worlds. See the world, come back home to the people loved most. He had genuinely considered himself lucky.

It was only after the divorce that he had given the private piloting game a fair shot. And why not? What else would he do with his time?

So Bitzi had gotten that part wrong. That was fine. He could move past it, right? It was part of being a professional adult.

"Kidding aside," she said, "I didn't expect you to get so _involved_ with Buster's school. He told me you're volunteering to chaperone at the Autumn Ball? Very brave. I figured by now…well, I don't know what I figured."

_No, go on. Say it. No, wait—don't say it. I'm supposed to be letting this go..._

She figured he would have turned tail and run back to New Rochelle by now. Well, he had news for her. It was going to take more than a domestic job and some middle school fundraisers to frighten him. Eleven years ago, his pregnant wife could have been beaten to death by a junkie. He did not think anything could truly scare a man after that. Well, maybe one thing could, and that was the reason why he had moved here. Maybe instead of getting upset, it was time to tell her. If she understood his side and where he was coming from, maybe she would not be so surprised. Maybe she would stop doubting him.

"I'm happy to do it," he said. "I really am. And I'm glad we're doing this. You know, making an effort."

"Me, too."

"There's something I want to confess. Don't be alarmed—just some honest talk," he said when he caught the double-take she had given him.

Bitzi stopped rinsing and turned to give him her full attention.

Where to begin?

"School dances are scary, huh?" he said. "I can't believe this is happening already. I remember when he took his first steps, and now he's as tall as I am. So much about him has changed. How is that even possible?"

"It's puberty, not sorcery," she said with a low laugh, leaning against the edge of the counter. "But I get what you mean. Soon it'll be dating and driving and…it's surreal."

"At least you could brace yourself with gradual progression. Imagine what it's like for me. Six or seven months go by, and when I finally see him he's grown, or he's learned to tie his shoes. Or he knows how to ride a bike, or his voice has changed. The last time he visited, I was awestruck when he stepped out of the terminal. I spent most of dinner that night just staring at him when he wasn't looking.

"I've seen birthdays in snapshots, school events in retrospect when he shows me his yearbook. It's like I'm kept abreast of what goes on, but I never really get to witness it. It's like I know him, but I don't really _know_ him."

She gave him a sympathetic expression.

"Oh, Bo, that's not true."

"It is. The only thing I know for sure is that he's up for anything when it comes to international snacks. I never could have guessed that he would have wanted to see The Dan Band if he hadn't told me. You even had to direct me on which gift to get him because I was clueless. A father should know those things. Mora and Carlos gave him a present that blew him away. Even my former employers know him better than I do. When I think about all the things I don't know and all the things I've missed, I just feel so sad about it, Bitz, like there's something I could've or should've done about it but didn't."

Her eyes were shining. He pressed on.

"This wasn't a whim. I have to be here. When Rick first called me about the school, I felt like a prayer had finally been answered. It was perfect. I waited to make my decision, but that was just a formality, really, because I had been searching for a reason to come back, and after all these years I had one, like a gift falling into my lap."

"You…wanted to come back to Elwood City?" Bitzi said dully, looking confused. "I don't follow. If you wanted to come back, then why didn't you?"

"I needed something solid. After…the way we left things, I didn't want to run the risk of upsetting you."

"Meaning?" she said.

Bo thought it was self-explanatory.

"I needed to handle things delicately. You made it clear that you didn't want me…around. When I left I thought maybe it would work out in the long run. I held out hope that you might change your mind someday. Given a little time and some distance…"

She did not look happy; she looked as if she felt cornered.

"Anyway," he said. "when it finally sunk in that it wasn't in the cards, I wanted an excuse for being here that was entirely my own. If I had that, I thought it might be easier for you to take my presence."

"No," she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You are not going to put this on me."

"Easy. I'm not trying to. I just want you to understand—"

"You were a grown man. You didn't need an excuse to live anywhere."

It did not matter how hard Bo tried to remain calm in situations like these, nothing got under his skin more than when she cut him off. It was doubly frustrating because, for as strong and smart as Bitzi was, this was her Achilles' heel, lapsing into irrationality when it came to the divorce. And so this was the beginning of an argument, only they were keeping their voices very low so that their son would not hear. Fleetingly, Bo imagined this might look comical to anyone there to witness it.

"Be honest. In the state you were in, would it have upset you if I had come back?"

"First you try to blame me for all the things you missed with Buster, and now you're trying to trick me into talking about Byron again. How dare you?"

"What I'm trying to do is get you to listen to me. And I would never try to trick you into doing anything."

"No, you'd just talk to our son behind my back and then convince him to lie to me. So much better. And for the record, all I said was that I wanted you to leave. It was your idea to move seven hours away."

"Don't you get it? I _know_ I could have come back. That's on me. I was too big a coward to fight for what I wanted. Now I'm missing a decade of my son's life and I've never been able to move on. Because of the mistakes I've made. I have never blamed you for that, and I never will. It's you who won't stop blaming yourself. For Byron, for the divorce, for everything bad thing that's happened since. And I will never stop trying to talk about Byron because I never _got_ to talk about Byron. You wouldn't let me."

Bitzi gaped at him. It would seem she had not expected him to actually say anything critical. She would rather just imagine he felt that way. He had disarmed her.

"You—you don't understand what it did to me," was all she said.

"Please. I _see_ what it's done to you, and it's heartbreaking. But what about what it did to me? He was my kid, too. When I was in Hawaii and you called…I think that's what getting stabbed in the heart must feel like. And when you told me that he was gone…when I heard my wife crying her eyes out thousands of miles away over a phone line and knowing there was nothing I could do about it, I wasn't blaming anyone. I didn't _care_ about finding someone _to_ blame. All I knew was that a piece of my world had crumbled away. The only thing that kept me sane was knowing that I would come home to you. I kept telling myself that this was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, but at least I have Bitz. We'll get through it. It'll be tough, it'll be awful, but we'll grieve together and we'll come out the other side _together_. But I never came out the other side. You refused to grieve with me, your husband, Byron's father. If there's anything I _do_ blame you for, I guess it's that."

She was on the verge of replying, but she was obviously having trouble finding her words. But if they were just going to go 'round and 'round again, he did not think he could take it. More than likely, she was going to kick him out. That's what she did when she could not deal.

"Bo—"

"I'll save you the trouble," he said, throwing a thumb in the direction of the front door. "You know, I used to think you and I could take on anything. I really am a sap. We can't even get through one simple dinner."

Bo turned on his heel and left her alone in the kitchen. He exited the condo as quietly as he could, though on the inside he felt like slamming the door.

_To be continued…_


	20. Happy Writing

 

Buster stood on his front stoop Monday afternoon, arms crossed to help keep warm. He was waiting for Fern. She had not disclosed the location from which she had departed, but he was sure that, wherever it was, she was booking it all the way here.

After coming home, Buster had replied to the text from his mother.

**Tonight's a late one again. Left cash for pizza on fridge. Love you!**

**thanks love you**

Buster had barely seen his mother since dinner Saturday night. Yesterday morning he had trudged groggily into the kitchen to find his breakfast prepared. A small ham and egg casserole sat on the counter, bundled up in a zip-up cozy to keep it warm, along with a slow cooker full of stew ingredients set to low. She had left him a note explaining that she was spending the day in doing some errands and visiting with a sick friend in Erie. Included were instructions on when to turn off the slow cooker and what to do with the leftovers, if there were any. Saturday night had been so much fun that having the house to himself for most of the day Sunday had been kind of strange and a little lonely. He hoped they could have more dinners together as a family. Trying to take Ladonna's advice, he allowed himself to feel optimistic that they would.

He scrolled through his email while wandering into the kitchen to retrieve the money, which had been pinned to the refrigerator with the Grey alien magnet Buster had bought years ago on a trip to Roswell. That's when he saw it and forgot all about the pizza. He had to let Fern know.

**got reply from del rey**

For someone who was furious with him, it had not taken long for her to call back.

"What did he say?"

She sounded cautious.

"Uh, I dunno. I'm sort of afraid to open it."

A frustrated noise.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Okay, I'll be there in a few."

Too anxious to sit inside, Buster had been out here for the past fifteen minutes, keeping watch for her while also taking shelter from the heavy mist in the air. He began tapping his toe out of habit as he stared out at the sidewalk, hoping she would come into view soon. He had not counted on Fern taking a shortcut, and he was taken off guard by the sloshing, squelching noises behind him.

He turned to see her emerging from around the side of the complex, looking soggy and exhausted. The number of thickets and backyards she had passed through to get here was anyone's guess. From the knees down, her jeans and sneakers were sodden. A couple of small, dying leaves clung to her dark blue raincoat, slick from the precipitation. She stopped to catch her breath.

"Hi," she panted.

"Hey."

"Let's have it," she said, beckoning for his phone as she approached the stoop.

"Fifth email down," Buster said handing it to her, though he was sure she could have figured that out on her own.

Fern grasped the phone tightly in both hands, regarding it as if it were about to inflict pain on her.

"Fern?" said Buster. "What does it say?"

"I—I don't know. I haven't opened it yet."

She stared at the device a while longer before handing it back to him, looking shamefaced.

"Please, Buster. I can't. I'm just too nervous."

"Me? I think I'm more nervous than you."

"You're the one who got me into this mess."

"That's _why_ I think I'm more nervous than you."

They stared at each other.

"I know," he said. "We'll wait for my mom. She can open it."

"Just give it here."

She took the phone back but hesitated some more before taking a huge, deep breath.

"Here goes—"

"Wait," Buster said. "Before you read it, I just want to say how sorry I am for everything, especially since this is probably the last time you'll ever speak to me. I didn't want to risk your chances at a career, and I didn't want to lose a friend, but I managed both 'cause I'm just that good. I'm sorry I was selfish. I just wish we could have talked, you know, about whatever was upsetting you. I'm sorry for that, too, whatever it was.

"Also, I want you to know that you're better than you think you are. You're afraid success will screw you up like with that fantasy guy, but that's not you. You want to be good, so you'll always look for ways to better yourself. You'll listen to criticism, maybe not form jerkwads like Lucas, but from the right people, even if it does hurt at first. Whatever happens, you're gonna be okay."

Fern looked touched even though she was still clearly a bundle of nerves. She nodded.

"Thank you."

And she began reading. She concentrated, her eyes rapidly darting over the screen. They widened.

"Oh…" she said softly, sounding surprised.

"What?"

"He…rejected me."

"Rejected? So—"

She held a finger up as she kept reading, going at a slower pace. It was Buster's turn at surprise as Fern gave an impressed huff and slowly cracked a grin.

"It's not a form rejection," she said. "Del Rey actually wrote to me. Listen to this…"

She cleared her throat as she scrolled up.

"'While personal letters of rejection are not something for which I am known, I felt compelled to make an exception in your case. I hope that you will not take my answer as a 'never,' but simply as a 'not yet'. You are quite a talented young writer, and if you apply life experience, practice, and patience to your craft, your talent will only grow in the coming years. I hope to hear from you again sometime in the future. I wish you good luck and happy writing. Sincerely, Ernesto Del Rey.' Wow…"

Fern clutched the phone to her chest. She closed her eyes and heaved a huge sigh of relief then let loose a short fit of quiet giggles. Buster had not seen her smile and laugh like this since the day they had left Lee Harper's house, when Buster had joked about the man's weird hobby to relieve tension.

"I think this is the first time I've ever seen someone happy over rejection," he said. "You _are_ happy, right, and not about to crack?"

"No, I'm definitely happy. Did you hear him, Buster? Ernesto Del Rey thinks _I'm_ talented."

"So in a way, I ended up helping you after all?"

Maybe that had been too soon. She shot him an incredulous look.

"Not saying that makes it any less wrong," he said defensively.

"I have to admit that this certainly boosts my confidence," Fern said. "I can't wait to get back into the groove. I suppose I've been down lately. I took a giant hit from the Wordsmiths. Honestly, joining that group was one of my biggest mistakes, and that's saying something given my recent track record. Plus, I have all these ideas, but I haven't had much time to write, not like I used to, anyway. It really took a toll on me. But knowing that someone out there, someone like Del Rey believes in me—it tells me that I'm on the right track, that the late hours and sneaky writing sessions and practical research are all worth it."

"You know, there are other people, some right here in this town, who believe in you."

"I know. Thanks for that."

She glanced at the email one more time before handing the phone back to him.

"I wish I could keep that email forever."

"You can. I'll print a copy for you…and find something you can put it in to keep it dry."

He looked down at her small frame, shivering now that her nerves were wearing off and the chill was seeping through her wet clothes.

"Come inside and I'll get you some towels to soak up some of that water. I was just about to order dinner. We'll have a pizza party in your honor. You in…friend?"

He opened the door and held it for her. She smiled at him before crossing the threshold.

"I'm in."

_To be continued…_

 


	21. Proposal

 

It was late Monday evening. Bo had not been home long, but already the house felt exceptionally quiet. Normally he would have played something on the Thorens while he wound down for the night. He had been using the iPod dock while the turntable was in the shop, much to his displeasure. Tonight, however, he was not in the mood, even if the silence was deafening. He sat at the kitchen table, about to unwrap and tuck into a plastic container of tom kha gai from the local Thai restaurant, when the doorbell rang.

_Well, there goes my appetite._

He abandoned his dinner and headed to the front door. It was a bit late for visitors, but he thought he knew who was calling. He had not spoken to her since Saturday night, and he was certain she had not been too happy with him when he had left. It was only a matter of time before he heard from her. It was time to brace for the discomfort.

"Bitzi."

A simple greeting to his ex upon opening the front door. She was wrapped in her trench coat, looking like a character in a noir film. The mist had dissipated and given way to a foggy night that, coupled with the glow of the streetlamps, created a backdrop that only added to the illusion. The only thing that broke it was her weary expression.

"I promise I come in peace," she said humbly. "May I?"

He stepped aside to let her in. She shuffled through the door and noted her surroundings, looking somewhat uncomfortable at not being on home turf. She paused momentarily when her gaze fell on the vinyl collection. If she noticed the empty space where the Thorens should have been, she said nothing.

"There's a lot I want to say," she began slowly. "Saying it over the phone just didn't seem right."

"Look…" he said, "Saturday night I did exactly the kind of things I hate. I'm sorry I blew up. Even sorrier that I walked out on you."

"You shouldn't be sorry. You had every right to stand up for yourself."

He was not sure exactly what he had expected her to say, only that it would probably include some platitudes about how they needed to push forward an pretend it never happened, to just move on, which would have been such an ironic way of phrasing it. What he had not expected was for her to acknowledge the argument head on and to sound apologetic about it to boot.

"You were pouring your heart out and I made it about me. We could've had a real, meaningful conversation, but I just…ran from it."

"The story of our lives, right?" he said with a defeated shrug.

"I lied to our son again," she said running a slender finger along the empty spot on top of the vinyl shelving. "Yesterday I told him that I was going to Erie to visit a friend. I went to Bear Lake instead. I don't know why, but I went. It was raining, so I just stood on the dock for a long, long time staring out at the island. It still hurts, so much, but for different reasons, I think."

She was of course referring to the place where they had spread their son's ashes. Bo would not interrupt her. This was the most she had spoken about Byron since that day he had come home from Hawaii, and he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"I never came out the other side either," she said. "Not really. I just fake it around others really well when I need to. But I can't around you because you see me. You've always seen me. That's one of the reasons why conversations with you are so much easier when they're over the phone and with hundreds of miles of separation.

"Saturday was a disaster, and I don't know if I can handle another dinner if there is always going to be tension between us. I've been thinking about what's the best course to take going forward."

"Well…I'm here to stay," said Bo. "You know my reasons. Nothing's changing my mind."

"I don't want you to change your mind, Bo. I _want_ to have more dinners, more meaningful conversations, more…just more. That's why I'd like to propose a possible means of achieving that. Please hear me out. Counseling. I was thinking about going back."

"Counseling?" he said. "Okay. Do you think that would help?

"I think it might. It certainly did the first time around, but I never felt like I fully came to terms with…a lot of things. And I would like for you to join me."

"Me?"

He mouthed the word again to himself.

"You _and_ me? Together?"

"I want so much to see the other side," Bitzi said. "I want to _try_. I have so many lingering issues that it's scary when I really stop and think about it. And you—well, you never got the chance to express yourself or sort anything out. It's not easy for me, to face you, to talk about it. Look at me. I'm a shaky mess right now."

She held up a trembling hand for emphasis.

"But I know we need to talk about it. We _need_ to. This is bigger than my guilt. I was hoping that having some sort of mediator might help us, or me, at least. What do you think? No, don't tell me. Take some time to—"

"Let's do it," said Bo.

"You—you mean it?"

"I've wanted this since…since the beginning. I never thought I'd hear you so much as mention it. I feel like I'm dreaming, Bitz. When do we start?"

"Oh. Well, I guess I'll have to do a little research, find someone who'd be a good match for us and go from there. Do you have time to talk about it tomorrow?"

"I'll _make_ time. This is…I can't believe we're actually going to do this."

He was fighting hard not to get choked up.

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to—I know I handed you a raw deal—"

"No, no. _Both_ of us were handed a raw deal. But we're going to handle it, okay? I'm committed if you are, one hundred percent."

She nodded.

Bo did not know what was appropriate. Should he hug her? That was what he felt like doing. Shake her hand? That felt too formal. He went for somewhere in the middle and reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She squeezed back.

It was impossible for them to be professional adults because they had been so much more than lovers, been through so much more than a breakup. They once had a marriage, shared a home, created children, and suffered profound loss. This was not about moving on. It was about healing, becoming whole again. After eleven years, it was about time.

_To be continued…_


	22. Miss You

 

_2004_

"It's going to be so fricken weird, going back to seventy degrees in the middle of winter," Chip said, tapping a wooden coffee stirrer on the rim of his paper cup.

It was a brisk and snowy January day as Catherine and Chip sat across from each other inside the Stardoe's at Mill Creek Mall, each clutching a hot cup of complicated and pricey coffee. Chip had flown in from Florida for the holidays, leaving his Porsche behind at Omega Psi Phi. Instead he had shown up at Westboro in one of his father's cars, a black Charger that looked like it was from the 1970s, and whisked her away for one final outing before he left town. They were both due back at school in a matter of days. It had been Tex-Mex for lunch, then onto the movies to see _The Last Samurai_ before ending up at the coffee shop, as they usually did whenever they were out together.

"Ugh, you only said that so you could rub it in," said Catherine in mock disgust.

She kicked him gently under the table, mindful that the new boots she had received for Hanukkah could potentially pack a wallop.

"Ow! I didn't! I swear!" he said, laughing. "No need to get salty about it."

She watched his laughter die out. He then paused to rub his lips with the knuckle of his index finger before he put the lid back onto the cup.

"You're heading out tomorrow?" she said.

"Yeah. Flight's in the morning, but at least it's a short one and I can crash when I get back to O.P.P. Maybe. I might have to pound a couple first and knock myself out. It's never quiet there."

He looked annoyed.

"So I guess this is it for a while," she said.

_I'm going to miss you_.

It had been on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of uttering it, not wanting to give him the wrong impression.

"Yeah, probably," he said, "unless I find time to come up for a weekend. Or even better, you could come visit me since you're so jelly over the weather."

Catherine snorted.

"Yeah, right. Like I could afford a trip to Florida."

"Didn't say _you'd_ have to pay for it. All I'd have to do is ask Dad, and—"

"Uh, thanks, but no thanks. I barely know your father. There's no way he could pay for my vacation."

"His Black Card would beg to differ," he said smugly.

" _No_ , Chip."

He rolled his eyes.

"You have _no idea_ how to take advantage of a situation, Catherine. Fine. There's always spring break. The bros were planning a trip to Miami, but I could come here instead."

He looked squarely at her as he leaned back, getting comfortable in his chair. Was he gauging her response? He always acted so cool that it was hard to tell. Again with the lip touching. That was the third time since they had gotten here. Was she reading too much into his behavior, or was he feeling her out over what had happened New Year's Eve? The party had only been a couple of days ago.

The kiss had been on her mind, mostly dominating it with questions of why she had thought it a good idea. She could not blame it on alcohol; she had barely tasted any. If she dared mention what had happened between her and Chip to Tami or Angi, they likely would try to give it to her straight: _Duh. It's because you're sixteen and he's in college, not to mention attractive, and you missed him and hormones are crazy and stupid._ Only that could not be it. It had been New Year's. People kissed at the stroke of midnight. That's just what you were supposed to do, right?

Right.

Besides, she had a personal policy, principles she would never compromise. Guyfriends were off limits.

She was not sure what Chip had made of the kiss, but maybe it had been on his mind as well. College was a nonstop party for him, so why was he talking about coming home already? Was he not living every eighteen-year-old boy's dream?

Chip actually left his lips alone, his hand coming to rest on the table, mere inches from hers. What the hell would she say if he wanted to talk about it? Should she just head him off at the pass and tell him it meant nothing? Maybe that was too presumptuous. Had he mentioned that Lexie broke up with him shortly before Christmas? Maybe. They were so on-again, off-again that it was hard to keep track. What if that was why he was feeling her out, because he was rebounding? In a single moment, her head raced with a hundred thoughts, coming to rest on, _What should I say if he suggests a long-distance relationship?_

That was the craziest thought of them all. There was no way Chip could handle a long-distance relationship. Judging from the oversharing in which he sometimes indulged, he was more into a least-distance-possible relationship. If she could not be there to give him affection and do all the other things girlfriends did, she doubted their relationship would last very long before he broke up with her in pursuit of someone who could. It would never work, even if she wanted it. And she did not want it. That was not her.

Casually, she slipped her hands off the table and into her lap.

"You'd honestly give up a chance to go spring breaking on South Beach?" she said. "Why?"

"I dunno. I've been to South Beach. It's not all that."

Clearly, she would have to put a stop to this before things got awkward.

"Are you crazy? This is your freshman year, Chip. It's, like, a rite of passage. You need to go and have fun, sew some wild oats. Just stay out of trouble, okay?"

The time between New Year's and spring break would be like dog years. If Chip was thinking about the kiss now, he will have long forgotten it by then.

Chip sighed and took a sip of his beverage.

"Maybe you're right," he said. "I should have some fun. While I still can."

He tried to keep his air of coolness, but she could tell that he did not mean a word he had just said.

* * *

_Present day_

It was well after sundown on Monday night, and another Yom Kippur had come and gone. Catherine had broken her fast at her aunt's house, where a lot of her mother's family had gathered to enjoy each other's company and grab something to eat. Shortly after walking through the door, her aunt had all but thrust a mug of her special mulled cider into her hands, exclaiming, "I'm so glad the weather's finally chilly enough for cider! Drink up, Catherine, honey," before prancing off to see to other guests.

Catherine had been in the kitchen, catching up with her cousin Seth as she savored the warm, delicious drink. She had also snagged a sesame bagel from one of the boxes on the counter. She was nibbling at it, trying not to wolf the whole thing down and give herself a stomach ache, when she caught what her sister was saying to her grandmother as they came back with armloads of dirty dishes.

"And you should've seen the _size_ of the bouquet, Bubby. It was enormous, like someone stuffed the Elwood City Botanical Gardens into a grocery bag. Only, you know, it looked nicer."

_Oh, great._

It was easy to see where her aunt got all her energy. Bubby had also been flitting around the house, taking care of people with the same enthusiasm. And Francine had been following her around like a puppy.

"Tell her how desperate Ben was, Catherine."

Bubby stepped in before Catherine could retort.

"You should leave your sistah alone, Frankaleh."

"Thank you, Bubby," Catherine said, a bit shocked.

"If she doesn't want to give a nice and _patient_ young Jewish man another chance, that's her business."

She wished she could correct them.

_He's a redheaded goy bartender, and he's the most supportive boyfriend I've ever had._

And she had not seen him since Tuesday night, when he had finished helping her move into her new apartment at the ranch. She had been utterly impressed with the way he had handled the ordeal. By the time they had brought up the last of her boxes around eleven o'clock, Chip looked exhausted, though he never complained. He had planted a chaste kiss on her lips before bidding her a good night and leaving for Belmont.

She could still feel it.

"What's wrong with him, Catherine? Is he a noisy eater? Does he have a weird fetish? Come on, you can tell Bubby."

"As much as I would love to talk about it in front of family," said Catherine, abandoning her food and cider on the kitchen island, "I have an early day tomorrow. Stalls don't muck themselves."

She made for the exit, stopping to give her grandmother a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"I'll show you around the ranch sometime soon, okay? Goodnight."

As she left the kitchen, Bubby called out her goodbye.

"G'night, dear! Call me more often!"

After shutting her car door, Catherine immediately called Chip.

"Have an easy fast?" he said smoothly.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "It was torture. In more ways than one. Hey, I know it's getting late, but I'm tired, I'm getting hangry, I want Mexican food—"

"Say no more," he said.

_And I miss you._

"I'm here to save the day if you think you can hold on for another forty minutes or so. I'll even make you the best damn margarita you've ever had."

_Ugh, I love you._

It was a figure of speech, of course, but it was best not to say it. Chip would likely run with it.

"Thank you so much, Chip."

"See ya soon."

When she arrived home at the ranch, the fog was already as thick as pea soup. That might slow Chip down a little, but Catherine knew she had at least twenty minutes before he got there with the takeout, plenty of time to shower and get comfy in her pajamas. But first, she needed to see her horse.

She passed the entrance to her upstairs apartment and headed into the stable. At the very end she could see Axel's head, craning his neck over the railing, looking for her. She hurried to him.

"Hey, baby boy. Looking good! Did you eat well today?"

Axel snorted and puffed warm air as he nuzzled Catherine's hair.

"I can't stay long," she said, stroking his liver chestnut mane. "Chip's going to be here soon. I just wanted to say goodnight."

Axel began to persistently nudge her hand with his nose.

"All right. All right. One, and then it's night-night."

She reached into her purse and produced a single peppermint. She unwrapped it and fed it to him. Any other night, she could willfully spend hours down here, but for now she was starving. Not just for food, but for company as well. The company of one person in particular.

"I think I'm actually falling for him, boy," she said grimly. "If I don't get this right, I am so screwed."

_To be continued…_


	23. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

"It's time to keep my end of the deal," Muffy's father said shortly after she had entered his home office.

Every weekday after coming home, her father would, without fail, greet her mother, and then he would pay a visit to his office. Muffy had left her history quiz, marked at the top with a bright red A-, on top of his desk blotter for him to find once he got there. She felt it made her look less desperate this way, better than accosting him on his arrival, asking for her phone back. It would be almost as if she were surprising him with a gift, and he would take initiative from there. Muffy had been studying in her room when Bailey knocked.

"Your father requests your presence, Miss Muffy," he had said dutifully.

Now she stood in front of her father's desk, watching him reach into one of its locking drawers. From underneath a folded newspaper that was yellowed and battered, he pulled out the shining purple and silver phone and held it aloft slightly, as if it were some sort of coveted prize.

To her, it was.

"In honor of your success, I am pleased to present to you, Mary Alice Crosswire, your Portolex Infinity, fully charged."

"Thank you, Daddy. Um, do you mind if I get rid of the old one first?"

"Be my guest."

Muffy drew the Drug Phone from the deep pocket of her cardigan, flipped it open and snapped it in two, which was harder than it looked on TV.

She traded the broken pieces with her father, who handed over the Infinity.

"I'm very proud of you, princess," he said. "I knew there was no way you'd fail, especially not after witnessing how hard you've been working. Alan, too. He really takes his job seriously, doesn't he?"

Muffy nodded.

"He takes most things seriously," she said, fidgeting with her phone, feeling its familiar shape and weight. "Maybe it's rubbing off on me… I'm sorry, Daddy. I know I was disrespectful, to you, Mr. Porter, Principle Brooks…and probably a lot of other people. I'm going to try to make things right, to be better."

Her father beamed.

"That's all I want."

He tossed the plastic fragments onto his desk and walked around to hug her. She hugged him back tightly.

_I really hope so._

"Just remember to stay the course. You'll get more than your phone back before you know it. But you've been doing so well I think you should take tonight off from studying."

The tiny taste of freedom sounded tempting.

"Thanks, but I really shouldn't. Alan kind of has side projects for me between sessions."

"Ah. Don't wanna throw a wrench in the works, eh? Well, at least take a small breather before dinner, okay, sweetums?" he said encouragingly.

It looked as if he had nodded ever so slightly toward the Infinity.

"You've earned it."

Instead of heading back to her room, Muffy walked through the doors leading to the patio. It was a crisp and cool day, the last of September, and the air was different but not yet heady with the fragrance of autumn. The sun was getting low, and it would only grow cooler. The enormous pool had long been covered, but she approached it anyway, and began to walk a lap around it.

She turned on the phone and saw herself in the mirrored screen before it came to life. She should have been smiling. In a different time, this moment would have been a glorious victory for her. She had always loved her phone but now she had a different sort of appreciation for it. It was not wrong to feel as if she had won something back with her efforts, but there were bigger, better prizes to be had, which meant there was a lot more work left to do. In the grand scheme of things, the Infinity was a straight-up bronze.

_At least I'll be able to dial accurately whenever I want to reach someone._

In her contacts list, Chip's picture was next to his name, the one she had taken in the dim light of the tapas restaurant. Her brother sat at the table, forever frozen with a forkful of food lifted halfway to his mouth, winking at the camera. They had not spoken since she had walked in on one of his little rendezvous with Catherine, when she, Muffy, had hurried away from him as he warned her about their father. Looking at the picture, though, Muffy could not help but smile. She never could stay mad at him, even if he sometimes gave her good reasons to be mad. Family was weird like that.

"Muff?"

Her brother sounded unsure when he picked up.

"Hey—this _is_ your cell. You got it back?"

"Don't sound so surprised," she said.

"I'm not surprised that you picked up your grades, I'm surprised that… It's good to hear from you, Muffler."

Muffy had been bracing for another jab at their father, but Chip had taken a hard left. Was he actually trying to control himself?

"When are you coming to Belmont?" he said. "Are you free?"

"I'm still working on that. Maybe soon-ish?"

"I hope so," he said. "I don't want to wait until Thanksgiving to spend time with you again."

"Oh, I'm sure it won't take that—wait. What are you talking about? You want me to come to Belmont on Thanksgiving?"

_Because that wouldn't create a tense and awkward conversation between Daddy and me at all._

"I could seriously hear the panic rising in your voice as you finished that question," Chip said. "Relax. I was…actually thinking that I would…come over for Thanksgiving this year."

Muffy fought the urge to squeal.

"You know, if you guys want me to come."

" _Shut_ up!" she said excitedly. "Of course we do! Dinner is going to be great. I'll make sure Bailey prepares all your favorites… Oh, Mom must be over the moon."

"I haven't told her yet. _I'm_ still getting used to the idea."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Call her now. This is going to make her so happy."

"Okay—"

"This is going to make _all_ of us happy."

She thought she heard a "right" under Chip's breath, but maybe that was because she had been halfway expecting it.

"All right, well, don't forget to keep hitting those books. Love you, Muffler. Mean it."

What a surprise. Privately, Muffy had hoped to get Chip to visit again by Thanksgiving, Christmas at the latest. But with the punishment causing a hiccup in her plans, she was sure those dreams had been dashed. Who would have thought Chip would come of his own volition?

She had to share the good news with someone, and since Francine was the only one who knew about the whole Chip situation, it had to be her. After her conversation with Chip had ended, the Infinity returned Muffy to the contacts list, reminding her that that was no longer true. At the top of the screen was Alan, who now knew more than anyone. Whereas every other name on the list had a corresponding picture to go with it, everyone from her parents to her friends to her hairstylist, Alan's name still had a generic silhouette accompanying it. The phone had been hers for three months. She felt guilty to have gone out of her way to designate a photo for everyone but him. Alan had listened to her fears and helped her more than anyone lately. She would have to rectify this oversight, and soon.

"I hung up with him five minutes ago, and I still don't think it's sunk in yet," Muffy said as she paced in front of the pool, talking to Alan, who had also been pleased to hear Muffy calling from her real cell phone.

"It sounded as if he were pretty adamant about keeping his distance," Alan said. "I'm curious to hear your theories on a possible tipping point."

"Well, of course you know about the breakfasts…"

Muffy had told Alan about the picnic baskets filled with Chip's favorites. She had been careful to leave out any mention of Catherine Frensky as per the couple's request.

"I think maybe he realized what he was missing when I stopped visiting. What else could it be? All I know for sure is that I'm thrilled…"

"I can tell," Alan said.

Alan had groaned when Muffy mentioned needing a picture of him for her contacts list, but he had also laughed a bit. She kept the conversation brief because Mr. Baxter was due at Alan's that evening to pick up his turntable. After washing up, it she went straight to the dining room, where her father already sat at the head of the table, wrapping up a phone call while Bailey set the table.

"I'm sorry that happened, Luddy, I really am. I'll have my people call your people, which means I'll talk to Millie about it…" he paused to chuckle at his joke. "We'll see what we can do and get back to you. Try not to worry too much… No trouble at all… Take care."

"That sweet, sweet woman," he muttered to himself. "If I ever find out they've lied to her…"

"What happened to Ludmilla," Muffy said, taking her seat.

"Oh, she was just telling me about an event she was helping organize," he said, putting his phone back into his breast pocket. "The committee booked a venue well in advance, something like a couple of months ago. Now all of a sudden, her assistant gets a call saying that there was a mix-up with the scheduling and that the venue is already booked."

"That's awful," said Muffy.

"I'll say. It would be a real shame if everything they've been working toward got cancelled."

"What are you going to do?"

"Whatever I can to help. We need to find a place that's open, even if it's over budget or overpriced. I'll cover the fee and get it locked down. No squirming out of an agreement this time, or they'll answer to me."

He spoke with the authority of someone who owned the entire town. Muffy did not have to work hard to remind herself that this was not far from the truth.

"But I'll have to run it by your mother first, or course. As with most things nowadays…"

He was muttering again.

Muffy was about to ask what kind of event it was, but she paused when she heard her mother's cheerful voice ringing throughout the lower level of the mansion.

"Eddie? Eddie, are you down here?"

Her father stood. Before he could answer, she breezed into the dining room with a, "Oh, there you are!"

She wore the biggest smile Muffy had seen in a long time.

"Darling, I have the most wonderful news," she said, draping her arms around his shoulders, allowing them to rest there.

"Don't tell me," he said with an impish smirk. "Your sister got engaged? Again."

Her mother laughed airily and mouthed "oh, stop" as she playfully slapped him on the chest.

"I just spoke with Chip."

"Oh?" he said casually. "And, uh, what did—what did he say?"

"He wanted to make sure that we'll be in town for Thanksgiving. He wants to come here for dinner!"

Bailey, who was in the middle of setting a place for Muffy, fumbled the handful of silverware he was holding, which fell on her charger plate with a clatter, startling everyone. Muffy could have sworn she saw his eyes flash wide with surprise before dropping everything. The butler quickly recovered his stoic expression and resumed work.  
"Apologies, sir, madam," he said, setting the cutlery in its proper placement. "Dinner will be served shortly."

With that, Bailey left for the kitchen, leaving the three of them alone in the great dining room. Her mother was still smiling at her father, who smiled back at her.

"R—Really?" he said. "Well, that is wonderful news, honey. Really, really wonderful. Looks like we've got a ton of good stuff to celebrate tonight."

Her mother pulled him close, and he returned the embrace. Muffy watched her mother close her eyes, reveling in the blissful moment. The opposite was true for her father, who could be seen in the reflection of an antique mirror that hung on the wall in an ornate golden frame. From what she could see, he looked worried.

To be continued…


	24. Let the Music Play

Bo plugged the Thorens into the wall socket. It was finally back, sitting in its rightful place atop the album stand. The empty space it had left in its absence had seemed to shine like a beacon these past several days whenever he would pass by, always reminding him that his household was not quite complete. In addition, the music just had not been the same. The iPod had served its purpose, providing him with endless tunes whenever he wanted them, but the fidelity he got with it fell short of what he got with the Thorens. He missed the ritual of it, too. Thumbing through his collection, selecting the perfect album for his mood, carefully removing the slipcover and placing it on the turntable all brought about a feeling that scanning through playlists would never be able to replicate.

He had retrieved the Thorens from the Powers kid earlier that evening. He had said it was now in perfect working order and that he had even perfected the RPMs and got it back to its old standards. That was something Bo had not noticed, and it made him worry that the kid might have messed with something he should not have. However, the kid claimed to have tested it himself to make sure it worked properly. Curious, Bo asked him what album he had used to test it. "Robert Johnson," the kid said, to which Bo had replied with an impressed "Nice."

And now, having the Thorens back home, back where it belonged, well…it felt like more than just a complete home. It felt like something had been set right with the world. Maybe that was because things looked more promising than ever. Perhaps the Thorens was just the icing on the cake.

And now the moment of truth, to give his beloved turntable a test run of his own. And he knew just the album to use. He had not touched Bitzi's housewarming gift since the day of their lunch meeting. There was no way he would integrate it into the shelves until he knew it was the real deal. Every album on those shelves was in near-perfect condition. To sully such a collection with a subpar addition was just unthinkable, so it had remained on his kitchen counter propped upright between the mail organizer and the cookie jar.

He retrieved _Qudrophenia_ from its temporary holding spot. He extracted the second record from within the slipcover. It was the one Buster had ruined when he had used it as a Frisbee, the album with one of Bo's favorite songs. With deft hands, Bo placed it onto the platter and turned the switch. The device came to life, humming faintly as if it, too, was filled with anticipation. He pushed another button, and the record began to spin. Carefully lowering the needle to the very last song, he waited.

As soon as the piano accompanied by the sound of pouring rain could be heard, he blew out a sigh of relief. It sounded just as sweet as he remembered, maybe a bit better. The tempo was perfect; the sound was perfect. Whereas the iPod had simply provided him with music, the Thorens _filled_ the house with it. He paced around the living area a while before giving in. He sat down on the sofa, leaned back with his eyes closed, and let the music wash over him.

_On the dry and dusty road_

_The nights we spend apart alone_

_I need to get back home to cool, cool rain_

If old and broken things could be repaired and old music could sound sweet again, then what else in this world was possible?

_To be continued…_

   
---


	25. Respect

 

 

 

 

"Mind if I follow you for a couple of minutes?"

The school day was over. Fern had been exiting the building when she was caught off guard by Buster, who had apparently been standing by the front doors, waiting for her.

"At least you're asking this time," she said with a smirk. "Don't forget, parents' night is tonight."

"I know. This won't take long."

She nodded as they took off in the direction of Fern's house. After taking a few steps, Buster began.

"So…my parents had a talk with me the other night and—get this—they're going to grief counseling together, starting next week."

Fern could not help but feel a surge of happiness at the news, which was punctuated by just how happy Buster looked at delivering it.

"For Byron? That's—that's great, Buster. That's huge for your mom."

"Yeah. You know, I didn't think it could get any better for us, but maybe it can."

"Thanks for telling me."

"I thought you deserved to know. You're being punished because of me, after all."

Fern shook her head.

"Still haven't been officially punished yet."

"Really? Weird. You're the reason this is happening, you know. That things are looking up for the Baxters' future."

Fern could feel herself beginning to blush.

"I think maybe you're giving me a bit too much credit, Buster."

"No way. You carried the investigation. I know that."

"But you're the one who figured it out."

"And you pushed for answers when I was too scared. If we hadn't found out all that stuff from Harper; if Mom hadn't caught me with the album; if Dad hadn't shown up; if I hadn't gotten tired of all their lies… None of this would be happening. Maybe Dad would still be here in Elwood City, but he and Mom would still be living a lie. It's all because you said I deserved answers."

"I guess we sort of needed each other, or else it wouldn't have worked out."

"Heck yeah. We made a good team. But…you risked a lot to help me and you took a major hit for it. And I never even thanked you. So, thank you, Fern."

"It was my pleasure. Literally."

They shared a laughed.

"Oh, and I got you something."

Buster plopped his school bag on the sidewalk and opened it.

"Please tell me it's not a contract from Little, Brown," said Fern cautiously.

"No, but I hope you like it," he said looking up at her.

He smiled as he handed a book to her.

"I took some great advice from a friend and went for something more low key."

Fern looked at the book and was immediately confused.

"Money, Mistresses, Mayhem, and Me…" she murmured. "The Cobb Patterson memoir?"

"Ah, whoops!" Buster said. "Grabbed the wrong book… Here! This is the one," he said, trading tomes with her. "This is the author you were telling me about, right?"

"Storyteller's Journey: My Twisted Tale of Life as a Writer by Stephanie Bachman. I've never heard of this one."

"The clerk at the bookstore suggested it for fans and for people who love writing. You fit both categories, so I thought you might find it interesting. Bachman sounds like a pretty cool lady. She plays in a band with some other authors, she rides a motorcycle, and she bakes her own bread."

Fern felt a twinge in her chest. Her eyes stung a little, but she would not break down again.

"This is really cool, Buster. Thank you."

Their friendship was still on the mend, and Fern was at a loss for what to say next. Before she could decide, however, she was interrupted by someone shouting her name.

"Hey, Fern!"

As the car rolled up near where she and Buster stood, Fern could see that it was Allison hanging out of the passenger window, hailing her, with Omar behind the wheel.

"Hey, that's the clerk who sold me the book!" Buster said, pointing at Allison. "Do you know those guys?"

"They're members of the Wordsmiths."

Omar parked on the curb. Both he and Allison exited the car and strolled over to them.

"Hi, Fern," Omar said.

"Hi, Omar, Allison. This is my friend, Buster."

They all exchanged waves.

"I've dealt with this one a couple of times before," Allison said to Fern as she pointed at Buster. "I bet you're the friend he's been buying all the books for. Got a minute?"

"Only a minute," said Fern. "I, um… Parents' night is tonight, and I have to get home in plenty of time."

She knew she sounded as sheepish as she felt, having to explain this to a couple of college kids.

"We're glad we found you," said Allison. "So you've really left the group, huh?"

"Yeah."

"No chance you'll change your mind?"

"Sorry. The Wordsmiths sounded like a fun idea, but Lucas is a bit much for me."

"Sometimes he's a bit much for all of us, to be honest. That sucks. We hate to lose you."

"Yeah," Omar said. "Just so you know, _we_ never thought you were bad or anything. It's just Lucas—we've never seen him act like that before. We were all pretty stunned; after the meeting, it was all anyone could talk about."

"We had coffee after with Tamara and her girlfriend," Allison said. "You should have seen her go off."

"Trust, that man's wife hates him," Omar supplied. "That's what she said. She was so angry. She said that Lucas must be high if he thinks _your_ writing's terrible."

"That, or he's jealous that a fourteen-year-old girl is a better writer than he is," said Allison. "None of us really got to say our piece on your submission. Seriously, Lucas can be such a blowhard."

"Right," said Omar. "But the good thing is that, for a blowhard, he's been pretty quiet lately. After you left, Smitty took Lucas aside and talked to him, called him out on the way he treated you. He's been subdued ever since."

"It's been kind of nice. Well, anyway, we like your stuff a lot, and we're glad we got to talk to you in person. It would suck if you let someone like our illustrious leader set you back. Feel free to PM us if you ever want to talk shop."

"Only constructive criticism, we swear. No lofty BS."

"Wow. Thanks, you guys," said Fern. "Sure. I—I might do that sometime."

They all said their goodbyes before Allison and Omar headed back to the car. As Fern watched them drive away, she heard a chuckle from behind. She turned to Buster, who sported a wide grin.

"Told you so," he said before making an exaggerated and comical turn on his heel and headed toward his home, singing, "R-E-S-P-E-C-T…"

* * *

It was parents' night at Mill Creek Middle School, the theme of which was "Welcome Autumn". The evening had kicked off with a short assembly in the auditorium. Principal Brooks gave a short speech before handing the stage over to the drama club. The small group performed a short skit they had written about the exciting and fun fall activities in store for MCM as well as reminding the parents that there were still volunteer positions available for various fundraisers. ("We've got sign-up sheets here tonight. Look for the kiosk located near the free refreshments!") Afterwards, families were free to tour various classrooms or visit the cafeteria for hot chocolate and homemade pie.

"I can't believe that closet was locked," Buster said as he and his parents headed back into the main hall, returning from an unsuccessful trip to the band room. "I really wanted to show you my new mascot costume."

"We can wait until a there's a game to see it, hon," his mother said.

"Yeah," said his father. "There's no rush."

"Yo, Baxters!"

Francine Frensky hopped in front of them, raising her camera to look through the viewfinder. Her hair was swept up into a ponytail, an unusual sight.

"Say 'cheese', you guys."

Almost reflexively, all three Baxters huddled together, smiling happily before the flash.

"Awesome," said Francine, and she was bounding off to find her next subject, ponytail swaying from side to side. "You guys are naturals!"

"That was Francine, right?" said his father.

Buster nodded.

"You'll get used to stuff like that. Let's go get some food."

"Why don't you boys go ahead," said his mother. "I'll join you in a sec."

* * *

When Bitzi caught up with Francine, she was near the front office, taking a picture of Arthur, who stood next to the "Welcome Autumn" banner.

"Try to act like you give a crap about this night," she was saying to him as Bitzi approached.

"Francine?" she said.

"Yeah?" the girl said, turning around. "Oh, hey, Mrs. Baxter."

"May I talk with you? I can see you're busy, so I'll be quick."

"Okay, I guess…"

The girl sounded unsure, but took a few tentative steps toward Bitzi. It seemed that Francine thought she might be in trouble.

"I love what you've done with your hair, by the way," she added, holding the front door open for her.

She had been trying to lighten the mood and it worked. Francine's shoulders seemed to relax instantly, and she smiled.

"Oh, well, thanks!"

Before following Francine out the door, Bitzi caught a glimpse of Arthur staring after Francine while shaking his head, looking frustrated. Once outside, Bitzi tried to keep to her word.

"You seem to have a knack for photojournalism," she said, jumping right in.

"What?" Francine said, apparently caught off guard by her words.

She looked down at the camera strung around her neck, and it seemed to dawn on her.

"What, _this_? No, it's just for my blog. It's just a hobby. I'm not trying to…"

"I'm a big fan of _The Frensky Star_ ," Bitzi said. "You're quite good at your hobby."

"You read it? But you're a _real_ news lady..."

"We like to call ourselves 'journalists'. What about you, Francine? Given any thought to a possible career path?"

"Uh… I haven't thought about much beyond kicking ass at basketball and getting a scholarship."

The girl's eyes widened.

"I said 'ass', didn't I? I'm so sorry, Mrs. Baxter. Please don't tell my dad."

Bitzi smirked in spite of herself.

"So much spunk. You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger. Well, I hope you consider the possibilities beyond just kicking ass at basketball. I'd never tell you what you _should_ do with your life, but I hope you'll keep an open mind."

Before going back inside to find Bo and Buster, she added, "Have fun. I can't wait to read your post about tonight."

* * *

"As I was telling Mrs. Crosswire on the drive here," said Muffy's father, "I'm very impressed with the quick turnaround we've see in Muffy. Outstanding results. Thank you, Alan."

"Muffy's done a lot of hard work on her own," Alan said modestly, "so it makes my job easier."

Muffy stood next to Alan, the two of them enjoying Styrofoam cups filled with cocoa. Her father had yet to taste his beverage. He had been too busy heaping praise on Alan. Muffy could not help but feel secondhand pride for him.

"She's been a real go-getter. I couldn't be more pleased," he agreed. "But you—I think you deserve a raise."

Alan looked dumbfounded. He stammered before finding his words.

"Oh, no, Mr. Crosswire, really. It's nice of you to suggest, but I feel as if the amount you're paying me is more than adequate for—"

Muffy nudged Alan in the ribs and gave him a sideways glance that suggested he should just shut up and take the money. The more money, the closer he would be to buying a car.

Alan had inquired about this bit of knowledge during one of their study sessions.

"I'm stumped," he had said, interrupting her in the middle of an exercise.

"Life's full of firsts, Alan," she said, putting her pen down. "What is it?"

"How _did_ you know I was saving for a car?"

"Oh, that… My mom told me. You told her at my pool party. Don't you remember?"

"No, though to be honest, I still get nervous around large bodies and vessels of water, and you have the largest pool I've ever seen that isn't certified by the Olympics. I'm liable to start babbling about anything just to occupy my mind."

It had not quite been schoolyard gossip, but it was gossip all the same. At one time Muffy had sought to use this information to get what she wanted. Now she rooted for Alan to get what he wanted, too, everything from an automobile to a normal, healthy life.

"It's settled," said Muffy's father. "Raise, starting next week."

Before Alan could object, he was interrupted by a man Muffy was pretty sure was Buster's dad.

"Hey, Alan! Sorry to butt in, but I just wanted to tell you how amazing the Thorens sounds—just like she did when _I_ was fifteen. Thanks again!"

"No problem, Mr. Baxter," said Alan.

"Wait a minute," Muffy's father said to Mr. Baxter. "You're Bo Baxter, aren't you? _Bitzi's_ Bo?"

"Seems I'll be getting that a lot," said Mr. Baxter with a smile.

"Ed Crosswire," he said, offering his hand. "Say, a little birdie told me that you're the new owner of the flight school in Ingram. I bet that's interesting work."

"I'm co-owner, actually. And it has its ups and downs."

Her father laughed heartily.

"That's pretty good!"

"No, it isn't, but I appreciate you trying to humor me. And what's your line?"

"Ah, well… Got my fingers in so many pies nowadays it's kinda hard to tell. But my first love has always been automotive sales. You got a favorite?"

"Not really much of a car guy," Mr. Baxter mused.

She watched her father's cheerful expression fall a little.

"I always thought I might like to own a vintage motorcycle, though. I've just never had my feet planted long enough to seriously consider it."

He looked pleased again as he clasped a firm grasp onto Mr. Baxter's shoulder.

"Bo, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. It just so happens I know an excellent motorbike guy. Let's grab some dessert, and I'll introduce you to some folks."

Muffy watched her father walk away with Mr. Baxter.

"It looks like you're every dad's favorite person," she said, turning to Alan.

Alan's face screwed up.

"As far as titles go, I think I prefer Zen Master of Learning," he said. "Speaking of which, would you like to see my newest project?"

Muffy looked around curiously.

"You brought it with you? Where is it?"

"Right here," he said, digging his phone out of his back pocket. "Keep in mind, I still have a few bugs to work out, but I'm pleased with what I've got so far. I've been referring to it as Project Study Buddy. It's a phone prog. That's short for 'program'."

"I know what a prog is," said Muffy, amused.

She closed in on Alan so he could demonstrate.

"I have about eighty-five of them on my Infinity, remember?"

"Right. Of course," he said. "So this prog blocks other progs with simple multiple choice questions. It won't interfere with calling or texting, so you won't be under pressure if there's an emergency. However, it will block almost everything else. Say I wanted to access the E! News prog—"

"Have you ever?" said Muffy with a small laugh.

"No, but say I _did_. When I tap the E! News icon, I'm instantly denied access. See?"

On screen, Alan had tried the E! News icon only for a small pop-up to appear, asking him a question.

_**What is the correct chemical formula for sodium chloride?** _

Below the question was a short list of possible answers. Alan selected the answer marked B.

"Would you look at that?" he said with dry humor as the front page of the E! News prog became visible, "Paparazzi photos of some celebrity couple having an argument on Rodeo Drive. Isn't it wonderful?"

Kidding aside, Muffy thought the prog was a neat idea.

"You could totally market this, Alan," she said with earnest amazement.

"Oh, no. This is just a study aid for you," he said. "I have no plans for it beyond that. I'll need to fine tune it, of course, and tailor it to your particular needs, but I can have it ready in about a week."

"This is going above and beyond your job as a tutor."

Alan shoved his phone back into his pocket.

"I made a promise," he said simply. "Also, your father is paying me an extortionate amount of money. Above and beyond is the least I could do."

He looked around searching the crowded cafeteria.

"I should find my parents and convince them to leave early," he said. "I'd like to finish my formal letter to Mrs. Turner-Mills. It's my apology for making a proverbial ass of myself. Maybe then I'll able to show my face at the library with minimal shame. Have a good night."

He turned to leave.

"Oh, Zen Master," Muffy called after him.

Alan looked back at her.

"You're really sweet," she said. "Sometimes."

He nodded thoughtfully.

"You aren't so bad either, Muffy," he said with a wink. "On occasion."

* * *

"I just signed up to help with the cake walk during the school carnival. I would have volunteered to chaperone the Autumn Ball, only I've got the big realtor expo that weekend."

The Walters family had gathered near the refreshment table, accompanied by Sue Ellen. Fern was barely listening to her mother as she quietly ate a slice of pumpkin pie. She was still thinking about her encounter with Allison and Omar. She only perked up when her mother addressed her personally.

"That was a pretty cute little skit the kids performed tonight, Fernie. It really makes me miss the days when you were up on the stage."

"You've always been very good, sweetie," her father chimed in.

"You know," said Fern, "I was actually considering going back to the stage, maybe auditioning for the fall musical."

"Really?" her mother said, eyes hopeful.

"Yeah," she said, dosing her words with just the right amount of enthusiasm. "I've really missed it, plus I've got so much free time on my hands. I bet my friends are going audition, too. How about you, Sue Ellen?"

Sue Ellen stared back at Fern, trying to hide her quizzical expression. She obviously knew Fern was up to something.

"Yeah, I might," Sue Ellen offered. "I haven't really decided yet."

"I can see it now," her mother said proudly. "You're going to break a leg, I just know it! Oooh, there's Ingrid Lundgren. Haven't talked to her in ages. I'll be right back!"

Her mother handed her plate of uneaten pie to her father as she raced off to talk to Mrs. Lundgren. Her father, who had finished his pie in three bites, set the plate atop his empty one and began eating it as well.

"Mmm," he mused. "Nothing beats apple."

"Wait," said Fern, "I thought blueberry was your favorite."

"I don't remember saying that."

"Yes, you _did_ ," she said insistently. "You did at your birthday dinner. Don't you remember?"

Her father thought as he chewed.

"Maybe. I guess I could have. But there's no need to get upset about it, Fernie. It's pie. As far as I'm concerned, it could all be my favorite."

No. That was not how it was supposed to work. There could be no loophole in the pie argument that would allow her mother to be right. Before Fern could lose herself and tell her father that he was too agreeable, they were interrupted by Mr. Crosswire, standing alongside a man she was certain to be Bo Baxter.

"Hey, Bill!" Mr. Crosswire said.

"Hi, Ed," said her father.

"Meet Bo Baxter."

Fern watched the two men shake hands and exchange pleasantries.

"Bo, this is Bill Walters, Northeast sales rep for VaulTech Security. And let's not forget his daughter, little Fern."

"Oh my gosh," Mr. Baxter said, smiling down at her. "You're _the_ Fern! Buster's friend? My son has told me a _lot_ about you."

"Really?" she said.

She was trying her hardest not to blush.

"I mean, he's told me a lot about you, too, sir. Welcome to Elwood City."

"Aw, thanks!"

The three men began to chat animatedly. Rather than stand around and listen to them talk about their careers, Sue Ellen nodded toward a less crowded section of the cafeteria. Fern followed.

"I'm just going to ignore the way your face lights up whenever his name is mentioned," she said once they had reached the area where the lunch line usually formed.

"Good," Fern said casually. "You should."

"But if you are interested in him," she continued, "maybe don't do silly things like push him away. Just a suggestion. Don't threaten him either."

"You threaten Binky all the time," said Fern, "and I think he loves you all the more for it."

Sue Ellen laughed.

"Binky's great, but he's not the one I'm interested in."

"Oh, I _know_."

Sue Ellen was quick to change the subject.

"So, um, what you said to your mom earlier—you're really thinking of going back to the stage?"

* * *

Fern had explained to Sue Ellen that she needed to find ways to appease her mother if she ever wanted to gain a normal writing life. If that meant doing a play here or there to get on her good side, well, there were certainly worse ways to get what one wanted. She was still on a high from the goodwill she had been accumulating as of late, and now she was more determined than ever to be the best writer she could be. Nothing would ever stand between her and her stories, not even her overbearing mother.

It was her bedtime. Fern switched on her bedside lamp before turning off the overhead. After settling underneath the covers, she picked it up, the book Buster had given her that afternoon. Upon flipping the cover open, she was surprised to see that Buster had taken the time to inscribe it in his messy handwriting.

_To the best detective and writer I know. Thank you for everything. I'm lucky to have a friend like you._

_Love,_

_Buster_

She felt another twinge in her chest. She was not ready to give up on him either. After all, they made a good team.

_To be continued…_

 


End file.
